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 Probability and Statistics by Example: I

Probability and statistics are as much about intuition and problem solving as they
are about theorem proving. Consequently, students can find it very difficult to
make a successful transition from lectures, to examinations, to practice because the
problems involved can vary so much in nature. Since the subject is critical in so
many applications, from insurance, to telecommunications, to bioinformatics, the
authors have collected more than 200 worked examples and examination questions
with complete solutions to help students develop a deep understanding of the
subject rather than a superficial knowledge of sophisticated theories. With amusing
stories and historical asides sprinkled throughout, this enjoyable book will leave
students better equipped to solve problems in practice and under exam conditions.
 Probability and Statistics
by Example: I
Basic Probability and Statistics
Second Edition

Yuri Suhov
University of Cambridge, and Universidade de São Paulo

Mark Kelbert
Swansea University, and Universidade de São Paulo
 University Printing House, Cambridge CB2 8BS, United Kingdom

Cambridge University Press is part of the University of Cambridge.

It furthers the University’s mission by disseminating knowledge in the pursuit of
education, learning and research at the highest international levels of excellence.

www.cambridge.org
Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781107603585
First edition © Cambridge University Press 2005
Second edition © Yuri Suhov and Mark Kelbert 2014
This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception
and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements,
no reproduction of any part may take place without the written
permission of Cambridge University Press.
First published 2005
Reprinted with corrections 2007
Second edition 2014
Printed in the United Kingdom by Clays, St Ives plc
A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-107-60358-5 Paperback
Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of
URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication,
and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain,
accurate or appropriate.
 Contents

Preface page vii

PART ONE BASIC PROBABILITY 1

1 Discrete outcomes 3
1.1 A uniform distribution 3
1.2 Conditional probabilities 9
1.3 The exclusion–inclusion formula 39
1.4 Random variables 47
1.5 The binomial, Poisson and geometric distributions 75
1.6 Chebyshev’s and Markov’s inequalities 98
1.7 Branching processes 122
2 Continuous outcomes 136
2.1 Uniform distribution 136
2.2 Expectation, conditional expectation, variance 182
2.3 Normal distribution 214

PART TWO BASIC STATISTICS 247

3 Parameter estimation 249
3.1 Preliminaries. Some important probability distributions 249
3.2 Estimators. Unbiasedness 260
3.3 Sufficient statistics. The factorisation criterion 267
3.4 Maximum likelihood estimators 271
3.5 Normal samples. The Fisher Theorem 273
3.6 Mean square errors 276
3.7 Exponential families 285

v
vi Contents

3.8 Confidence intervals 289

3.9 Bayesian estimation 294
4 Hypothesis testing 304
4.1 Type I and type II error probabilities 304
4.2 Likelihood ratio tests 306
4.3 Goodness of fit. Testing normal distributions, 1 316
4.4 The Pearson χ2 test 321
4.5 Generalised likelihood ratio tests 326
4.6 Contingency tables 335
4.7 Testing normal distributions, 2 342
4.8 Linear regression. The least squares estimators 356
4.9 Linear regression for normal distributions 361
5 Cambridge University Mathematical Tripos
examination questions in IB Statistics 369
Appendix Tables of random variables and probability
distributions 448
Bibliography 450
Index 458
 Preface

The original motivation for writing this book was rather personal. The first
author, in the course of his teaching career in the Department of Pure Math-
ematics and Mathematical Statistics (DPMMS), University of Cambridge,
and St John’s College, Cambridge, had many painful experiences when good
(or even brilliant) students, who were interested in the subject of mathemat-
ics and its applications and who performed well during their first academic
year, stumbled or nearly failed in the exams. This led to great frustration,
which was very hard to overcome in subsequent undergraduate years. A con-
scientious tutor is always sympathetic to such misfortunes, but even pointing
out a student’s obvious weaknesses (if any) does not always help. For the
second author, such experiences were as a parent of a Cambridge University
student rather than as a teacher.
We therefore felt that a monograph focusing on Cambridge University
mathematics examination questions would be beneficial for a number of
students. Given our own research and teaching backgrounds, it was natural
for us to select probability and statistics as the overall topic. The obvious
starting point was the first-year course in probability and the second-year
course in statistics. In order to cover other courses, several further volumes
will be needed; for better or worse, we have decided to embark on such a
project.
Thus our essential aim is to present the Cambridge University probability
and statistics courses by means of examination (and examination-related)
questions that have been set over a number of past years. Of course,
Cambridge University examinations have never been easy. On the basis
of examination results, candidates are divided into classes: first, second
(divided into two categories: 2.1 and 2.2) and third; a small number of
candidates fail. (In fact, a more detailed list ranking all the candidates
in order is produced, but not publicly disclosed.) The examinations are

vii
viii Preface

officially called the ‘Mathematical Tripos’, after the three-legged stools on

which candidates and examiners used to sit (sometimes for hours) during
oral examinations in ancient times. Nowadays all examinations are written.
The first year of the three-year undergraduate course is called Part IA, the
second Part IB and the third Part II.
For example, in May–June of 2003 the first-year mathematics students sat
four examination papers; each lasted three hours and included 12 questions
from two subjects. The following courses were examined: algebra and geom-
etry, numbers and sets, analysis, probability, differential equations, vector
calculus, and dynamics. All questions on a given course were put in a sin-
gle paper, except for algebra and geometry, which appear in two papers. In
each paper, four questions were classified as short (two from each of the two
courses selected for the paper) and eight as long (four from each selected
course). A candidate might attempt all four short questions and at most
five long questions, no more than three on each course; a long question car-
ries twice the credit of a short one. A calculation shows that if a student
attempts all nine allowed questions (which is often the case), and the time
is distributed evenly, a short question must be completed in 12–13 minutes
and a long one in 24–25 minutes. This is not easy and usually requires spe-
cial practice; one of the goals of this book is to assist with such a training
programme.
The pattern of the second-year examinations has similarities but also dif-
ferences. In June 2003, there were four IB Maths Tripos papers, each three
hours long and containing nine or ten short and nine or ten long questions
in as many subjects selected for a given paper. In particular, IB statistics
was set in Papers 1, 2 and 4, giving a total of six questions. Of course,
preparing for Part IB examinations is different from preparing for Part IA;
we comment on some particular points in the corresponding chapters.
For a typical Cambridge University student, specific preparation for the
examinations begins in earnest during the Easter (or Summer) Term (be-
ginning in mid-April). Ideally, the work might start during the preceding
five-week vacation. (Some of the examination work for Parts IB and II, the
computational projects, is done mainly during the summer vacation period.)
As the examinations approach, the atmosphere in Cambridge can become
rather tense and nervous, although many efforts are made to diffuse the
tension. Many candidates expend a great deal of effort in trying to calculate
exactly how much work to put into each given subject, depending on how
much examination credit it carries and how strong or weak they feel in it,
in order to optimise their overall performance. One can agree or disagree
with this attitude, but one thing seemed clear to us: if the students receive
 Preface ix

(and are able to digest) enough information about and insight into the level
and style of the Tripos questions, they will have a much better chance of
performing to the best of their abilities. At present, owing to great pressures
on time and energy, most of them are not in a position to do so, and much
is left to chance. We will be glad if this book helps to change this situation
by alleviating pre-examination nerves and by stripping Tripos examinations
of some of their mystery, at least in respect of the subjects treated here.
Thus, the first reason for this book was a desire to make life easier for the
students. However, in the course of working on the text, a second motiva-
tion emerged, which we feel is of considerable professional interest to anyone
teaching courses in probability and statistics. In 1991–2 there was a major
change in Cambridge University to the whole approach to probabilistic and
statistical courses. The most notable aspect of the new approach was that
the IA Probability course and the IB Statistics course were redesigned to
appeal to a wide audience (200 first-year students in the case of IA Proba-
bility and nearly the same number of the second-year students in the case
of IB Statistics). For a large number of students, these are the only courses
from the whole of probability and statistics that they attend during their
undergraduate years. Since more and more graduates in the modern world
have to deal with theoretical and (especially) applied problems of a proba-
bilistic or statistical nature, it is important that these courses generate and
maintain a strong and wide appeal. The main goal shifted, moving from
an academic introduction to the subject towards a more methodological
approach which equips students with the tools needed to solve reasonable
practical and theoretical questions in a ‘real life’ situation.
Consequently, the emphasis in IA Probability moved further away from
sigma-algebras, Lebesgue and Stieltjes integration and characteristic func-
tions to a direct analysis of various models, both discrete and continuous,
with the aim of preparing students both for future problems and for future
courses (in particular, Part IB Statistics and Part IB/II Markov chains). In
turn, in IB Statistics the focus shifted towards the most popular practical
applications of estimators, hypothesis testing and regression. The princi-
pal determination of examination performance in both IA Probability and
IB Statistics became students’ ability to choose and analyse the right model
and accurately perform a reasonable amount of calculation rather than their
ability to solve theoretical problems.
Certainly such changes (and parallel developments in other courses) were
not always unanimously popular among the Cambridge University Faculty
of Mathematics, and provoked considerable debate at times. However, the
student community was in general very much in favour of the new approach,
x Preface

and the ‘redesigned’ courses gained increased popularity both in terms of

attendance and in terms of attempts at examination questions (which has
become increasingly important in the life of the Faculty of Mathematics).
In addition, with the ever-growing prevalence of computers, students have
shown a strong preference for an ‘algorithmic’ style of lectures and exami-
nation questions (at least in the authors’ experience).
In this respect, the following experience by the first author may be of some
interest. For some time I have questioned former St John’s mathematics
graduates, who now have careers in a wide variety of different areas, about
what parts of the Cambridge University course they now consider as most
important for their present work. It turned out that the strongest impact on
the majority of respondents is not related to particular facts, theorems, or
proofs (although jokes by lecturers are well remembered long afterwards).
Rather they appreciate the ability to construct a mathematical model which
represents a real-life situation, and to solve it analytically or (more often)
numerically. It must therefore be acknowledged that the new approach was
rather timely. As a consequence of all this, the level and style of Maths Tripos
questions underwent changes. It is strongly suggested (although perhaps it
was not always achieved) that the questions should have a clear structure
where candidates are led from one part to another.
The second reason described above gives us hope that the book will be
interesting for an audience outside Cambridge. In this regard, there is a
natural question: what is the book’s place in the (long) list of textbooks on
probability and statistics? Many of the references in the bibliography are
books published in English after 1991, containing the terms ‘probability’ or
‘statistics’ in their titles and available at the Cambridge University Main
and Departmental Libraries (we are sure that our list is not complete and
apologise for any omission).
As far as basic probability is concerned, we would like to compare this
book with three popular series of texts and problem books, one by S.
Ross [120]–[125], another by D. Stirzaker [138]–[141] and the third by G.
Grimmett and D. Stirzaker [62]–[64]. The books by Ross and Stirzaker are
commonly considered as a good introduction to the basics of the subject. In
fact, the style and level of exposition followed by Ross has been adopted in
many American universities. On the other hand, Grimmett and Stirzaker’s
approach is at a much higher level and might be described as ‘professional’.
The level of our book is intended to be somewhere in-between. In our view,
it is closer to that of Ross or Stirzaker, but quite far away from them
in several important aspects. It is our feeling that the level adopted by
Ross or Stirzaker is not sufficient to get through Cambridge University
 Preface xi

Mathematical Tripos examinations with Class 2.1 or above. Grimmett and

Stirzaker’s books are of course more than enough – but in using them to
prepare for an examination the main problem would be to select the right
examples from among a thousand on offer.
On the other hand, the above monographs, as well as many of the books
from the bibliography, may be considered as good complementary reading for
those who want to take further steps in a particular direction. We mention
here just a few of them: [29], [41], [56], [60], [75], [131] and [26]. In any
case, the (nostalgic) time when everyone learning probability had to read
assiduously through the (excellent) two-volume Feller monograph [50] had
long passed (though in our view, Feller has not so far been surpassed).
In statistics, the picture is more complex. Even the definition of the sub-
ject of statistics is still somewhat controversial (see Section 3.1). The style
of lecturing and examining the basic statistics course (and other statistics-
related courses) at Cambridge University was always rather special. This
style resisted a trend of making the exposition ‘fully rigorous’, despite the
fact that the course is taught to mathematics students. A minority of stu-
dents found it difficult to follow, but for most of them this was never an
issue. On the other hand, the level of rigour in the course is quite high and
requires substantial mathematical knowledge. Among modern books, the
closest to the Cambridge University style is perhaps [22]. As an example of
a very different approach, we can point to [153] (whose style we personally
admire very much but would not consider as appropriate for first reading or
for preparing for Cambridge examinations).
A particular feature of this book is that it contains repetitions: certain
topics and questions appear more than once, often in slightly different form,
which makes it difficult to refer to previous occurrences. This is of course
a pattern of the examination process which becomes apparent when one
considers it over a decade or so. Our personal attitudes here followed a
proverb ‘Repetition is the mother of learning’, popular (in various forms)
in several languages. However, we apologise to those readers who may find
some (and possibly many) of these repetitions excessive.
This book is organised as follows. In the first two chapters we present
the material of the IA Probability course (which consists of 24 one-hour
lectures). In this part the Tripos questions are placed within or immediately
following the corresponding parts of the expository text. In Chapters 3 and
4 we present the material from the 16-lecture IB Statistics course. Here,
the Tripos questions tend to embrace a wider range of single topics, and
we decided to keep them separate from the course material. However, the
xii Preface

various pieces of theory are always presented with a view to the rôle they
play in examination questions.
A special word should be said about solutions in this book. In part, we
use students’ solutions or our own solutions (in a few cases solutions are
reduced to short answers or hints). However, a number of the so-called ex-
aminers’ model solutions have also been used; these were originally set by
the corresponding examiners and often altered by relevant lecturers and co-
examiners. (A curious observation by many examiners is that, regardless of
how perfect their model solutions are, it is rare that any of the candidates
follow them.) Here, we aimed to present all solutions in a unified style; we
also tried to correct mistakes occurring in these solutions. We should pay
the highest credit to all past and present members of the DPMMS who con-
tributed to the painstaking process of supplying model solutions to Tripos
problems in IA Probability and IB Statistics: in our view their efforts defi-
nitely deserve the deepest appreciation, and this book should be considered
as a tribute to their individual and collective work.
On the other hand, our experience shows that, curiously, students very
rarely follow the ideas of model solutions proposed by lecturers, supervisors
and examiners, however impeccable and elegant these solutions may be.
Furthermore, students understand each other much more quickly than they
understand their mentors. For that reason we tried to preserve whenever
possible the style of students’ solutions throughout the whole book.
Informal digressions scattered across the text have been in part borrowed
from [38], [60], [68], the St Andrew’s University website www-history.mcs.st-
andrews.ac.uk/history/ and the University of Massachusetts website
www.umass.edu/wsp/statistics/tales/. Conversations with H. Daniels, D.G.
Kendall and C.R. Rao also provided a few subjects. However, a num-
ber of stories are just part of folklore (most of them are accessible
through the Internet); any mistakes are our own responsibility. Pho-
tographs and portraits of many of the characters mentioned in this book
are available on the University of York website www.york.ac.uk/depts/
maths/histstat/people/ and (with biographies) on http://members.aol.com/
jayKplanr/images.htm.
The advent of the World Wide Web also had another visible impact: a pro-
liferation of humour. We confess that much of the time we enjoyed browsing
(quite numerous) websites advertising jokes and amusing quotations; conse-
quently we decided to use some of them in this book. We apologise to the
authors of these jokes for not quoting them (and sometimes changing the
sense of sentences).
Throughout the process of working on this book we have felt both the
support and the criticism (sometimes quite sharp) of numerous members
 Preface xiii

of the Faculty of Mathematics and colleagues from outside Cambridge

who read some or all of the text or learned about its existence. We would
like to thank all these individuals and bodies, regardless of whether they
supported or rejected this project. We thank personally Charles Goldie,
Oliver Johnson, James Martin, Richard Samworth and Amanda Turner,
for stimulating discussions and remarks. We are particularly grateful to
Alan Hawkes for the limitless patience with which he went through the
preliminary version of the manuscript. As stated above, we made wide
use of lecture notes, example sheets and other related texts prepared by
present and former members of the Statistical Laboratory, Department of
Pure Mathematics and Mathematical Statistics, University of Cambridge,
and Mathematics Department and Statistics Group, EBMS, University of
Wales-Swansea. In particular, a large number of problems were collected
by David Kendall and put to great use in Example Sheets by Frank
Kelly. We benefitted from reading excellent lecture notes produced by
Richard Weber and Susan Pitts. Damon Wischik kindly provided vari-
ous tables of probability distributions. Statistical tables are courtesy of
R. Weber.
Finally, special thanks go to Sarah Shea-Simonds and Maureen Storey for
carefully reading through parts of the book and correcting a great number
of stylistic errors.

Preface to the second edition

The second edition differs from the first edition of this book in about 15 per-
cent of problems and examples. The theoretical part was kept intact al-
though some portions of the material in Sections 2.1, 2.3, 4.8 and 4.9 were
added, removed or changed. As in the first edition, the staple of the book
is University of Cambridge examination questions; the above changes have
been caused in part by trends in the exam practice.
There are also some changes in the organisation of the presentation in this
edition. Remarks, Examples and Worked Examples are numbered in one se-
quence by section. Some sections end with Problems for which no solution
is provided. Equations are numbered by section in a separate sequence. Ex-
amination questions in statistics are given in the final chapter.
The final stage of the work on the second edition was done when one of
the authors (YS) was visiting the University of São Paulo. The financial
support of the FAPESP Foundation is acknowledged.
 PART ONE

BASIC PROBABILITY
 1
Discrete outcomes

1.1 A uniform distribution

Lest men suspect your tale untrue,

Keep probability in view.
J. Gay (1685–1732), English poet.

In this section we use the simplest (and historically the earliest) probabilis-
tic model where there are a finite number m of possibilities (often called
outcomes) and each of them has the same probability 1/m. A collection A
of k outcomes with k ≤ m is called an event and its probability P(A) is
calculated as k/m:
the number of outcomes in A
P(A) = . (1.1.1)
the total number of outcomes
An empty collection has probability zero and the whole collection one. This
scheme looks deceptively simple: in reality, calculating the number of out-
comes in a given event (or indeed, the total number of outcomes) may be
tricky.
Worked Example 1.1.1 You and I play a coin-tossing game: if the coin
falls heads I score one, if tails you score one. In the beginning, the score is
zero. (i) What is the probability that after 2n throws our scores are equal?
(ii) What is the probability that after 2n + 1 throws my score is three more
than yours?

Solution The outcomes in (i) are all sequences

HHH . . . H, T HH . . . H, . . . , T T T . . . T

3
4 Discrete outcomes

formed by 2n subsequent letters H or T (or, 0 and 1). The total number

of outcomes is m = 22n , each carries probability 1/22n . We are looking for
outcomes where the number of Hs equals that of T s. The number k of such
outcomes is (2n)!/n!n! (the number of ways to choose positions for n Hs
among 2n places available in the sequence). The probability in question is
(2n)! 1
× 2n .
n!n! 2
In (ii), the outcomes are the sequences of length 2n + 1, 22n+1 in total.
The probability equals
(2n + 1)! 1
× .
(n + 2)!(n − 1)! 22n+1

Worked Example 1.1.2 A tennis tournament is organised for 2n players

on a knock-out basis, with n rounds, the last round being the final. Two
players are chosen at random. Calculate the probability that they meet:
(i) in the first or second round, (ii) in the final or semi-final, and (iii) the
probability they do not meet.

Solution The sentence ‘Two players are chosen at random’ is crucial. For
instance, one may think that the choice has been made after the tournament
when all results are known. Then there are 2n−1 pairs of players meeting in
the first round, 2n−2 in the second round, two in the semi-final, one in the
final and 2n−1 + 2n−2 + · · · + 2 + 1 = 2n− 1 in
 all rounds.
2n
The total number of player pairs is = 2n−1 (2n − 1). Hence the
2
answers:
2n−1 + 2n−2 3 3
(i) = , (ii) ,
2n−1 (2 − 1)
n 2(2 − 1)
n 2n−1 (2n − 1)
and
2n−1 (2n − 1) − (2n − 1) 1
(iii) = 1 − n−1 .
2n−1 (2n − 1) 2

Worked Example 1.1.3 There are n people gathered in a room.

(i) What is the probability that two (at least) have the same birthday?
Calculate the probability for n = 22 and 23.
(ii) What is the probability that at least one has the same birthday as you?
What value of n makes it close to 1/2?
 1.1 A uniform distribution 5

Solution The total number of outcomes is 365n . In (i), the number of out-
comes not in the event is 365 × 364
 × · · · × (365 − n + 1). So, the 
probability
that all birthdays are distinct is 365 × 364 × · · · × (365 − n + 1) 365n and
that two or more people have the same birthday
365 × 364 × · · · × (365 − n + 1)
1− .
365n
For n = 22:
365 364 344
1− × × ··· × = 0.4927,
365 365 365
and for n = 23:
365 364 343
1− × × ··· × = 0.5243.
365 365 365
In (ii), the number of outcomes not in the event is 364n and the probability
in question 1 − (364/365)n . We want it to be near 1/2, so
 
364 n 1 1
≈ , i.e. n ≈ − ≈ 252.61.
365 2 log2 (364/365)
Worked Example 1.1.4 Mary tosses n + 1 coins and John tosses n coins.
What is the probability that Mary gets more heads than John?

Solution We must assume that all coins are unbiased (as it was not spec-
ified otherwise). Mary has 2n+1 outcomes (all possible sequences of heads
and tails) and John 2n ; jointly 22n+1 outcomes that are equally likely. Let
HM and TM be the number of Mary’s heads and tails and HJ and TJ
John’s, then HM + TM = n + 1 and HJ + TJ = n. The events {HM > HJ }
and {TM > TJ } have the same number of outcomes, thus P(HM > HJ ) =
P(TM > TJ ).
On the other hand, HM > HJ if and only if n − HM < n − HJ , i.e.
TM − 1 < TJ or TM ≤ TJ . So event HM > HJ is the same as TM ≤ TJ , and
P(TM ≤ TJ ) = P(HM > HJ ).
But for any (joint) outcome, either TM > TJ or TM ≤ TJ , i.e. the number
of outcomes in {TM > TJ } equals 22n+1 minus that in {TM ≤ TJ }. Therefore,
P(TM > TJ ) = 1 − P(TM ≤ TJ ). To summarise:
P(HM > HJ ) = P(TM > TJ ) = 1 − P(TM ≤ TJ ) = 1 − P(HM > HJ ),
whence P(HM > HJ ) = 1/2.

Solution Suppose that the final toss belongs to Mary. Let x be the prob-
ability that Mary’s number of heads equals John’s number of heads just
6 Discrete outcomes

before the final toss. By the symmetry, the probability that Mary’s number
of heads exceeds that of John just before the final toss is (1 − x)/2. This
implies that the Mary’s number of heads exceeds that of John by the end of
the game equals (1 − x)/2 + x/2 = 1/2.

Solution By the end of the game Mary has either more heads or more tails
than John because she has more tosses. These two cases exclude each other.
Hence, the probability of each case is 1/2 by the symmetry argument.
Worked Example 1.1.5 You throw 6n six-sided dice at random. Show
that the probability that each number appears exactly n times is
 
(6n)! 1 6n
.
(n!)6 6

Solution There are 66n outcomes in total (six for each die), each has prob-
ability 1/66n . We want n dice to show one dot, n two, and so forth. The
number of such outcomes is counted by fixing first which dice show one:
(6n)! [n!(5n)!].
 Given n dice showing one, we fix which remaining dice show
two: (5n)! [n!(4n)!], etc. The total number of desired outcomes is the prod-
uct that equals (6n)!(n!)6 . This gives the answer.
In many problems, it is crucial to be able to spot recursive equations
relating the cardinality of various events. For example, for the number fn
of ways of tossing a coin n times so that successive tails never appear:
fn = fn−1 + fn−2 , n ≥ 3 (a Fibonacci equation).
Worked Example 1.1.6 (i) Determine the number gn of ways of tossing
a coin n times so that the combination HT never appears. (ii) Show that
fn = fn−1 + fn−2 + fn−3 , n ≥ 3, is the equation for the number of ways of
tossing a coin n times so that three successive heads never appear.

Solution (i) gn = 1 + n; 1 for the sequence HH . . . H, n for the sequences

T . . . T H . . . H (which includes T . . . T ).
(ii) The outcomes are 2n sequences (y1 , . . . , yn ) of H and T . Let An be
the event {no three successive heads appeared after n tosses}, then fn is
(1) (2) (3) (1)
the cardinality #An . Split: An = Bn ∪ Bn ∪ Bn , where Bn is the event
{no three successive heads appeared after n tosses, and the last toss was a
(2)
tail}, Bn = {no three successive heads appeared after n tosses, and the last
(3)
two tosses were T H} and Bn ={no three successive heads appeared after
n tosses, and the last three tosses were T HH}.
(i) (j) (1) (2) (3)
Clearly, Bn ∩Bn = ∅, 1 ≤ i = j ≤ 3, and so fn = #Bn +#Bn +#Bn .
 1.1 A uniform distribution 7
(1)
Now drop the last digit yn : (y1 , . . . yn ) ∈ Bn if and only if yn = T ,
(1) (2)
(y1 , . . . yn−1 ) ∈ An−1 , i.e. #Bn = fn−1 . Also, (y1 , . . . yn ) ∈ Bn if and only
if yn−1 = T , yn = H, and (y1 , . . . yn−2 ) ∈ An−2 . This allows us to drop
(2) (3)
the two last digits, yielding #Bn = fn−2 . Similarly, #Bn = fn−3 . The
equation then follows.
Worked Example 1.1.7 In a Cambridge cinema n people sit at random
in the first row. The row has N ≥ n seats. Find the probability of the
following events:
(a) that no two people sit next to each other;
(b) that each person has exactly one neighbour; and
(c) that, for every pair of distinct seats symmetric relative to the middle of
the row, at least one seat from the pair is vacant.
Now assume that n people sit at random in the two first rows of the same
cinema, with 2N ≥ n. Find the probability of the following events:
(d) that at least in one row no two people sit next to each other;
(e) that in the first row no two people sit next to each other and in the
second row each person has exactly one neighbour; and
(f) that, for every pair of distinct seats in the second row, symmetric relative
to the middle of the row, at least one seat from the pair is vacant.
In parts (d)–(f) you may find it helpful to use indicator functions specifying
limits of summation.

  that n ≥ 1. In parts (a)–(c), the total number of

Solution We assume
outcomes equals N n , and all of them have the same probability. (All people
are indistinguishable.) Then: 
  N 
(a) The answer is N −n+1n n if N ≥ 2n − 1 and 0 if N < 2n − 1. In
fact, to place n people in N seats so that no two of them sit next to each
other, we scan the row from left to right (say) and affiliate, with each of
n seats taken, an empty seat positioned to the right. Place an extra empty
seat to the right of the person in the position to the right end of the row.
This leaves N − n + 1 virtual positions where we should place n objects. The
objects are empty seats to the right of occupied ones.
(b) First, assume n = 2l is even. Then we have n/2 = l pairs of neigh-
bouring occupied seats, and with each of n/2 of them we again affiliate an
N −n+1 N 
empty seat to the right. Thus the answer is n/2 n if N ≥ 3n/2 − 1
and 0 if N < 3n/2 − 1.
If n is odd, the probability in question equals 0.
8 Discrete outcomes

(c) First, assume that N is even. Then, if we require that

 all people sit in
the left-hand side of the row, the number of outcomes is N/2
n . Now, for each
  N 
person we have 2 symmetric choices. Hence, the answer is 2n N/2 n n if
N ≥ 2n and 0 if N < 2n.
When N is odd, there is a seat in the middle: it can be taken or vacant.
Thus, the answer in this case is:
      N 
2n (N −1)/2
n + 2n−1 (N −1)/2
n−1 n if N ≥ 2n + 1,

 −1)/2 N 
2n−1 (Nn−1 n if N = 2n − 1,
0 if N < 2n − 1.
In parts (d)–(f), we have in total
    
2N N N
= 1(n − N ≤ k ≤ N )
n k n−k
0≤k≤n

outcomes, again of equal probability.

(d) The answer is therefore
   N 
2 N −k+1
k n−k 1(n − N ≤ k ≤ (N + 1)/2)
0≤k≤n
N −k+1N −n+k+1 2N 
− k n−k 1(n − (N + 1)/2 ≤ k ≤ (N + 1)/2) n .

(e) The answer is

N −2l+1N −n+2l+1
l n−2l
0≤l≤n/2
2N 
× 1(n/2 − (N + 1)/4 ≤ l ≤ (N + 1)/3) n .

(f) For N even, the answer is

    
k N/2 N 2N
2 1(n − N ≤ k ≤ N/2) .
k n−k n
0≤k≤n

For N odd, the answer is

 
(N − 1)/2
1(k ≤ (N − 1)/2)2 k
k
0≤k≤n
 
k−1 (N − 1)/2
+ 1(k ≤ (N + 1)/2)2
k−1
   
N 2N
× 1(n − N ≤ k) .
n−k n
 1.2 Conditional probabilities 9

1.2 Conditional Probabilities. Bayes’ Theorem.

Independent trials

Probability theory is nothing but common sense reduced to calculation.

P.-S. Laplace (1749–1827), French mathematician.

Clockwork Omega
(From the series ‘Movies that never made it to the Big Screen’.)

From now on we adopt a more general setting: our outcomes do not neces-
sarily have equal probabilities p1 , . . . , pm , with pi > 0 and p1 + · · · + pm = 1.
As before, an event A is a collection of outcomes (possibly empty); the
probability P(A) of event A is now given by

P(A) = pi = pi I(i ∈ A). (1.2.1)

outcome i∈A outcome i

(P(A) = 0 for A = ∅.) Here and below, I stands for the indicator function,
viz.:

1, if i ∈ A,
I(i ∈ A) =
0, otherwise.

The probability of the total set of outcomes is 1. The total set of outcomes
is also called the whole, or full, event and is often denoted by Ω, so P(Ω) = 1.
An outcome is often denoted by ω, and if p(ω) is its probability, then

P(A) = p(ω) = p(ω)I(ω ∈ A). (1.2.2)

ω∈A ω∈Ω

As follows from this definition, the probability of the union

P(A1 ∪ A2 ) = P(A1 ) + P(A2 ) (1.2.3)

for any pair of disjoint events A1 , A2 (with A1 ∩ A2 = ∅). More generally,

P(A1 ∪ · · · ∪ An ) = P(A1 ) + · · · + P(An ) (1.2.4)

for any collection of pair-wise disjoint events (with Aj ∩ Aj  = ∅ for all

j = j  ). Consequently, (i) the probability P(Ac ) of the complement Ac = Ω\A
is 1 − P(A), (ii) if B ⊆ A, then P(B) ≤ P(A) and P(A) − P(B) = P(A\B) 
and (iii) for a general pair of events A, B: P(A \ B) = P A \ (A ∩ B) =
P(A) − P(A ∩ B).
10 Discrete outcomes

Furthermore, for a general (not necessarily disjoint) union:

n
P(A1 ∪ · · · ∪ An ) ≤ P(Ai );
i=1

a more detailed analysis of the probability P( Ai ) is provided by the
exclusion–inclusion formula (1.3.1); as follows.
Given two events A and B with P(B) > 0, the conditional probability
P(A|B) of A given B is defined as the ratio
P(A ∩ B)
P(A|B) = . (1.2.5)
P(B)
At this stage, the conditional probabilities are important for us because of
two formulas. One is the formula of complete probability: if B1 , . . . , Bn are
pair-wise disjoint events partitioning the whole event Ω, i.e. have Bi ∩Bj = ∅
  
for 1 ≤ i < j ≤ n and B1 B2 · · · Bn = Ω, and in addition P(Bi ) > 0
for 1 ≤ i ≤ n, then

P(A) = P(A|B1 )P(B1 ) + P(A|B2 )P(B2 ) + · · · + P(A|Bn )P(Bn ). (1.2.6)

The proof is straightforward:

P(A ∩ Bi )
P(A) = P(A ∩ Bi ) = P(Bi ) = P(A|Bi )P(Bi ).
P(Bi )
1≤i≤n 1≤i≤n 1≤i≤n

The point is that often it is conditional probabilities that are given, and
we are required to find unconditional ones; also, the formula of complete
probability is useful to clarify the nature of (unconditional) probability P(A).
Despite its simple character, this formula is an extremely powerful tool in
literally all areas dealing with probabilities. In particular, a large portion of
the theory of Markov chains is based on its skilful application.
Representing P(A) in the form of the right-hand side (RHS) of (1.2.6) is
called conditioning (on the collection of events B1 , . . . , Bn ).
Another formula is the Bayes formula (or Bayes’ Theorem) named after
T. Bayes (1702–1761), an English mathematician and cleric. It states that
under the same assumptions as above, if in addition P(A) > 0, then the
conditional probability P(Bi |A) can be expressed in terms of probabilities
P(B1 ), . . . , P(Bn ) and conditional probabilities P(A|B1 ), . . . , P(A|Bn ) as
P(A|Bi )P(Bi )
P(Bi |A) = . (1.2.7)
P(A|Bj )P(Bj )
1≤j≤n
 1.2 Conditional probabilities 11

The proof is the direct application of the definition and the formula of com-
plete probability:
P(A ∩ Bi )
P(Bi |A) = , P(A ∩ Bi ) = P(A|Bi )P(Bi )
P(A)
and

P(A) = P(A|Bj )P(Bj ).

j

A standard interpretation of equation (1.2.7) is that it relates the posterior

probability P(Bi |A) (conditional on A) with prior probabilities {P(Bj )} (valid
before one knew that event A occurred).
In his lifetime, Bayes finished only two papers: one in theology and one
called ‘Essay towards solving a problem in the doctrine of chances’; the latter
contained Bayes’ Theorem and was published two years after his death.
Nevertheless he was elected a Fellow of The Royal Society. Bayes’ theory (of
which the above theorem is an important part) was for a long time subject
to controversy. His views were fully accepted (after considerable theoretical
clarifications) only at the end of the nineteenth century.

Worked Example 1.2.1 Four mice are chosen (without replacement)

from a litter containing two white mice. The probability that both white
mice are chosen is twice the probability that neither is chosen. How many
mice are there in the litter?

Solution Let the number of mice in the litter be n. We use the notation
P(2) = P(two white chosen) and P(0) = P(no white chosen). Then
   
n−2 n
P(2) = .
2 4

Otherwise, P(2) could be computed as:

2 1 2n−2 1 2n−2n−3 1 n−2 2 1
+ + +
nn−1 nn−1n−2 nn−1n−2n−3 n n−1n−2
n−2n−3 2 1 n−2 2 n−3 1 12
+ + = .
n n−1n−2n−3 n n−1n−2n−3 n(n − 1)
On the other hand,
   
n−2 n
P(0) = .
4 4
12 Discrete outcomes

Otherwise, P(0) could be computed as follows:

n−2n−3n−4n−5 (n − 4)(n − 5)
P(0) = = .
n n−1n−2n−3 n(n − 1)

Solving the equation

12 (n − 4)(n − 5)
=2 ,
n(n − 1) n(n − 1)

we get n = (9 ± 5) 2; n = 2 is discarded as n ≥ 6 (otherwise the second
probability is 0). Hence, n = 7.

Worked Example 1.2.2 Lord Vile drinks his whisky randomly,  and the
probability that, on a given day, he has n glasses equals e −1 n!, n = 0, 1, . . ..
Yesterday his wife Lady Vile, his son Liddell and his butler decided to murder
him. If he had no whisky that day, Lady Vile was to kill him; if he had
exactly one glass, the task would fall to Liddell, otherwise the butler would
do it. Lady Vile is twice as likely to poison as to strangle, the butler twice as
likely to strangle as to poison, and Liddell just as likely to use either method.
Despite their efforts, Lord Vile is not guaranteed to die from any of their
attempts, though he is three times as likely to succumb to strangulation as
to poisoning.
Today Lord Vile is dead. What is the probability that the butler did it?

Solution Write P(dead | strangle) = 3r, P(dead | poison) = r, and

1
P(drinks no whisky) = P(drinks one glass) = ,
e
2
P(drinks two glasses or more) = 1 − .
e
Next,

1 2
P(strangle | Lady V) = , P(poison | Lady V) = ,
3 3
2 1
P(strangle | butler) = , P(poison | butler) =
3 3
and
1
P(strangle | Liddell) = P(poison | Liddell) = .
2
 1.2 Conditional probabilities 13

Then the conditional probability P(butler | dead) is

P(d|b)P(b)
P(d|b)P(b) + P(d|LV)P(LV) + P(d|Lddl)P(Lddl)
  
2 3r × 2 r
1− +
e 3 3
=      
2 3r × 2 r 1 3r r × 2 1 3r r
1− + + + + +
e 3 3 e 3 3 e 2 2
e−2
= ≈ 0.3137.
e − 3/7
Worked Example 1.2.3 At the station there are three payphones which
accept 20p pieces. One never
 works, another always works, while the third
works with probability 1 2. On my way to the metropolis for the day, I wish
to identify the reliable phone, so that I can use it on my return. The station
is empty and I have just three 20p pieces. I try one phone and it does not
work. I try another twice in succession and it works both times. What is the
probability that this second phone is the reliable one?

Solution Let A be the event in the question: the first phone tried did not
work and the second worked twice. Clearly,

P(A|1st reliable) = 0,
P(A|2nd reliable) = P(1st never works | 2nd reliable)
1
+ × P(1st works half-time | 2nd reliable)
2
1 1 1 3
= + × = ,
2 2 2 4
and the probability P(A|3rd reliable) equals
1 1 1
× × P(2nd works half-time | 3rd reliable) = .
2 2 8
The required probability P(2nd reliable) is then
1/3 × 3/4 6
= .
1/3 × (0 + 3/4 + 1/8) 7

Worked Example 1.2.4 Parliament contains a proportion p of Labour

Party members, incapable of changing their opinions about anything, and
1 − p of Tory Party members changing their minds at random, with prob-
ability r, between subsequent votes on the same issue. A randomly chosen
14 Discrete outcomes

parliamentarian is noticed to have voted twice in succession in the same way.

Find the probability that he or she will vote in the same way next time.

Solution Set
A1 = {Labour chosen}, A2 = {Tory chosen},
B = {the member chosen voted twice in the same way}.
We have P(A1 ) = p, P(A2 ) = 1 − p, P(B|A1 ) = 1, P(B|A2 ) = 1 − r. We want
to calculate
P(A1 ∩ B) P(A1 )P(B|A1 )
P(A1 |B) = =
P(B) P(B)
and P(A2 |B) = 1 − P(A1 |B). Write
P(B) = P(A1 )P(B|A1 ) + P(A2 )P(B|A2 ) = p · 1 + (1 − p)(1 − r).
Then
p (1 − r)(1 − p)
P(A1 |B) = , P(A2 |B) = ,
p + (1 − r)(1 − p) p + (1 − r)(1 − p)
and the answer is given by
   p + (1 − r)2 (1 − p)
P the member will vote in the same wayB = .
p + (1 − r)(1 − p)

Worked Example 1.2.5 The Polya urn model is as follows. We start with
an urn which contains one white ball and one black ball. At each second we
choose a ball at random from the urn and replace it together with one more
ball of the same colour. Calculate the probability that when n balls are in
the urn, i of them are white.

Solution Denote by Pn the conditional probability given that there are n

balls in the urn. For n = 2 and 3

1, n = 2
Pn (one white ball) = 1
2 , n = 3,

and
Pn (two white balls) = 12 , n = 3.
Make the induction hypothesis
1
Pk (i white balls) = ,
k−1
 1.2 Conditional probabilities 15

for all k = 2, . . . , n − 1 and i = 1, . . . , k − 1. Then, after n − 1 trials (when

the number of balls is n),

Pn (i white balls)
i−1 n−1−i
= Pn−1 (i − 1 white balls) × + Pn−1 (i white balls) ×
n−1 n−1
1
= , i = 1, . . . , n − 1.
n−1
Hence,
1
Pn (i white balls) = , i = 1, . . . , n − 1.
n−1

Worked Example 1.2.6 You have n urns, the rth of which contains r − 1
red balls and n − r blue balls, r = 1, . . . , n. You pick an urn at random and
remove two balls from it without replacement. Find the probability that the
two balls are of different colours. Find the same probability when you put
back a removed ball.

Solution The totals of blue and red balls in all urns are equal. Hence, the
first ball is equally likely to be any ball. So
  1
P 1st blue = = P(1st red).
2
Now,
  n
   1
P 1st red, 2nd blue = P 1st red, 2nd blue  urn k chosen ×
n
k=1
1 (k − 1)(n − k)
=
n (n − 1)(n − 2)
k
 n n

1
= n (k − 1) − k(k − 1)
n(n − 1)(n − 2)
k=1 k=1

1 n(n − 1)n (n + 1)n(n − 1)
= −
n(n − 1)(n − 2) 2 3
 
n(n − 1) n n+1 1
= − = .
n(n − 1)(n − 2) 2 3 6
We used here the following well-known identity:
n
1
i(i − 1) = (n + 1)n(n − 1).
3
i=1
16 Discrete outcomes

By symmetry:
1 1
P(different colours) = 2 × = .
6 3
If you return a removed ball, the probability that the two balls are of
different colours becomes

1 n2 (n − 1) (n − 1)n(n + 1)
P(1st red, 2nd blue) = −
n(n − 1)2 2 3
n−2
= .
6(n − 1)
n−2
So the solution is .
3(n − 1)
Worked Example 1.2.7 The authority of Ruritania took a decision to
pardon and release one of three prisoners X, Y and Z imprisoned in solitary
confinement in a notorious Alcázar prison. The prisoners know about this
decision but have no clue who the lucky one is, the waiting is agonising. A
sympathetic but corrupt prison guard approaches prisoner X with an offer
to name for some bribe another prisoner (not X) who is condemned to stay.
He says: ‘This will reduce your chances of staying from 2/3 down to 1/2. It
should be a relief for you’. After some hesitation X accepts the offer and
the guard names Y .
Now, suppose that the information is correct and Y would not be released.
Find the conditional probability
P(X, Y remains in prison)
P(Xremains in prison|Y named) =
P(Y named)
and check the validity of the guard’s claim in the following three cases:
(a) The guard is unbiased, i.e. he names Y or Z with probabilities 1/2 in
the case both Y and Z are condemned to remain in prison.
(b) The guard hates Y and definitely names him in the case Y is condemned
to remain in prison.
(c) The guard hates Z and definitely names him in the case Z is condemned
to remain in prison.

Solution By symmetry,
P(Xreleased) = 1/3 and P(Xremains in prison) = 2/3,
and the same is true for Y and Z. Next, find the conditional probability
P(X, Y remains in prison)
P(Xremains in prison|Y named) =
P(Y named)
 1.2 Conditional probabilities 17

where P(X, Y remains in prison) = 1/3. In the case (a) we have

P(Y named) = P(X, Y remains in prison) + 12 P(Y, Zremains in prison)
1 1 1
= + =
3 6 2
and the guard’s claim is wrong: his information does not affect the chances
of the prisoner. In the case (b) we have
2
P(Y named) = P(X, Y remains in prison) + P(Y, Zremains in prison) =
3
and
1
P(Xremains in prison|Y named) =
2
and the prison guard is correct. Finally, in the case (c)
1
P(Y named) = P(X, Y remains in prison) = .
3
In this case
P(Xremains in prison|Y named) = 1
and the prison guard is wrong again.
Worked Example 1.2.8 You are on a game show and given a choice of
three doors. Behind one is a car; behind the two others are a goat and a pig.
You pick door 1, and the host opens door 3, with a pig. The host asks if you
want to pick door 2 instead. Should you switch? What if instead of a goat
and a pig there were two goats?

Solution A popular solution of this problem always assumes that the host
knows behind which door the car is, and takes care not to open this door
rather than doing so by chance. (It is assumed that the host never opens
the door picked by you.) In fact, it is instructive to consider two cases,
depending on whether the host does or does not know the door with the
car. If he doesn’t, your chances are unaffected, otherwise you should switch.
Indeed, consider the events
   
Yi = you pick door i , Ci = the car is behind door i ,
   
Hi = the host opens door i , Gi /Pi = a goat/pig is behind door i ,
with P(Yi ) = P(Ci ) = P(Gi ) = P(Pi ) = 1/3, i = 1, 2, 3. Obviously, event Yi
is independent of any of the events Cj , Gj and Pj , i, j = 1, 2, 3.
You want to calculate
P(C1 ∩ Y1 ∩ H3 ∩ P3 )
P(C1 |Y1 ∩ H3 ∩ P3 ) = .
P(Y1 ∩ H3 ∩ P3 )
18 Discrete outcomes

In the numerator:
P(C1 ∩ Y1 ∩ H3 ∩ P3 )
= P(C1 )P(Y1 |C1 )P(P3 |C1 ∩ Y1 )P(H3 |C1 ∩ Y1 ∩ P3 )
1 1 1 1 1
= × × × = .
3 3 2 2 36
If the host doesn’t know where the car is, then
P(Y1 ∩ H3 ∩ P3 )
= P(Y1 )P(P3 |Y1 )P(H3 |Y1 ∩ P3 )
1 1 1 1
= × × = ,
3 3 2 18

and P(C1 |Y1 ∩ H3 ∩ P3 ) = 1 2. But if he does then

P(Y1 ∩ H3 ∩ P3 )
= P(Y1 ∩ C1 ∩ H3 ∩ P3 ) + P(Y1 ∩ C2 ∩ H3 ∩ P3 )
1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1
= × × × × × × ×1= ,
3 3 2 2 3 3 2 12
and P(C1 |Y1 ∩ H3 ∩ P3 ) = 1/3.
The answer remains the same if there were two goats instead of a goat
and a pig. Another useful exercise is to consider the case where the host
has some ‘preference’ choosing a door with the goat with probability pg and
that with the pig with probability pp = 1 − pg .

We continue our study by introducing the definition of independent events.

The concept of independence was an important invention in probability
theory. It shaped the theory at an early stage and is considered one of the
main features specifying the place of probability theory within more general
measure theory.
We say that events A and B are independent if

P(A ∩ B) = P(A)P(B). (1.2.8)

A convenient criterion of independence is: events A and B, where say P(B) >
0 are independent if and only if P(A|B) = P(A), i.e. knowledge that B
occurred does not change the probability of A.
Trivial examples are the empty event ∅ and the whole set Ω: they are
independent of any event. The next example we consider is when each of the
four outcomes 00, 01, 10, and 11 have probability 1/4. Here the events

A = {1st digit is 1} and B = {2nd digit is 0}

 1.2 Conditional probabilities 19

are independent:
1 1 1 1
P(A) = p10 + p11 = = p10 + p00 = P(B), P(A ∩ B) = p10 = = × .
2 4 2 2
Also, the events

{1st digit is 0} and {both digits are the same}

are independent, while the events

{1st digit is 0} and {the sum of digits is > 0}

are dependent.
These examples can be easily reformulated in terms of two unbiased coin-
tossings. An important fact is that if A, B are independent then Ac and B
are independent:

P(Ac ∩ B) = P(B \(A ∩ B)) = P(B) − P(A ∩ B)

= P(B) − P(A)P(B) (by independence)
= [1 − P(A)]P(B) = P(Ac )P(B).

Next, if (i) A1 and B are independent, (ii) A2 and B are independent, and
(iii) A1 and A2 are disjoint, then A1 ∪ A2 and B are independent. If (i) and
(ii) hold and A1 ⊂ A2 then B and A2 \A1 are also independent.
Intuitively, independence is often associated with an ‘absence of any con-
nection’ between events. There is a famous joke about Andrey Nikolayevich
Kolmogorov (1903–1987), the renowned Russian mathematician considered
the father of the modern probability theory. His monograph, [84], which orig-
inally appeared in German in 1933, was revolutionary in understanding the
basics of probability theory and its rôle in mathematics and its applications.
When in the 1930s this monograph was translated into Russian, the Soviet
government enquired about the nature of the concept of independent events.
A senior minister asked if this concept was consistent with materialistic de-
terminism, the core of Marxist–Leninist philosophy, and about examples of
such events. Kolmogorov had to answer on the spot, and he had to be cau-
tious as subsequent events showed, such as the infamous condemnation by
the authorities of genetics as a ‘reactionary bourgeois pseudo-science’. The
legend is that he did not hesitate for a second, and said: ‘Look, imagine a
remote village where there has been a long drought. One day, local peasants
in desperation go to the church, and the priest says a prayer for rain. And
the next day the rain arrives! These are independent events’.
20 Discrete outcomes

In reality, the situation is more complex. A helpful view is that indepen-

dence is a geometric property. In the above example, the four probabilities
p00 , p01 , p10 and p11
can be assigned to the vertices
(0; 0), (0; 1), (1; 1) and (1; 0)
of a unit square. See Figure 1.1. Each of these four points has a projection
onto the horizontal and the vertical line. The projections are points 0 and 1
on each of these lines, and a vertex is uniquely determined by its projections.
If the projection points have probability mass 1/2 on each line then each
vertex has
1 1 1
pij = × = , i, j = 0, 1.
2 2 4
In this situation one says that the four-point probability distribution
 
1 1 1 1
, , ,
4 4 4 4
is a product of two two-point distributions
 
1 1
, .
2 2
It is easy to imagine a similar picture where there are m points along the
horizontal and n along the vertical line: we would then have mn pairs (i, j)
(lattice sites) where i = 0, . . . , m − 1, j = 0, . . . , n − 1 and each pair will re-
ceive probability mass 1/mn. Moreover, the equidistribution can be replaced
by a more general law:
(1) (2)
pij = pi pj ,
where
(1) (2)
pi , i = 0, . . . , m − 1, and pj , j = 0, . . . , n − 1,

1/2
1/4 1/4
(1) (2)
p ij = p i p j
1/4 1/4
1/2

1/2 1/2

Figure 1.1
 1.2 Conditional probabilities 21

are probability distributions for the two projections. Then any event
that is expressed in terms of the horizontal projection (for example,
{digit i is divisible by 3}) is independent of any event expressed in terms
of the vertical projection (for example, {digit j is ≤ n/2}). This is a basic
(and in a sense the only) example of independence.
More generally, we say that events A1 , . . . , An are mutually independent
(or simply independent) if for all subcollections Ai1 , . . . , Ail ,

P(Ai1 ∩ · · · ∩ Ail ) = P(Ai1 ) · · · P(Ail ). (1.2.9)

This includes the whole collection A1 , . . . , An . It is important to distinguish

this situation from the one where (1.2.9) holds only for some subcollections;
say pairs Ai , Aj , 1 ≤ i < j ≤ n, or only for the whole collection A1 , . . . , An .
See Worked Examples 1.2.17 and 1.2.18.
This gives rise to an important model: a sequence of independent trials,
each with two or more outcomes. Such a model is behind many problems,
and it is essential to familiarise yourself with it.
So far, we assumed that the total number of outcomes ω is finite, but the
material in this section can be extended to the case where Ω is a count-
able set, consisting of points x1 , x2 , . . . , say, with assigned probabilities
pi = P({xi }), i = 1, 2, . . .. Of course, the labelling of the outcomes can be
different, for instance, by i ∈ Z, the set of integers. The requirements are as
before: each pi ≥ 0 and i pi = 1.
We can also work with infinite sequences of events. For example, equa-
tions (1.2.6) and (1.2.7) do not change form:
P(A|Bi )P(Bi )
P(A) = P(A|Bj )P(Bj ), P(Bi |A) = . (1.2.10)
1≤j<∞ P(A|Bj )P(Bj )
1≤j<∞

Worked Example 1.2.9 A coin shows heads with probability p on each

toss. Let πn be the probability that the number of heads after n tosses is
even. By showing that πn+1 = (1 − p)πn + p(1 − πn ), n ≥ 1, or otherwise,
find πn . (The number 0 is considered even.)

Solution As always in the coin-tossing models, we assume that outcomes

of different throws are independent. Set An = {nth toss is a head}, with
P(An ) = p and Bn = {even number of heads after n tosses}, with πn =
P(Bn ). Then, by conditioning on An+1 and Acn+1 :

P(Bn+1 ) = P(Bn+1 ∩ An+1 ) + P(Bn+1 ∩ Acn+1 )

= P(Bn+1 |An+1 )P(An+1 ) + P(Bn+1 |Acn+1 )P(Acn+1 ).
22 Discrete outcomes

Next, Bn+1 ∩ An+1 = Bnc ∩ An+1 and Bn+1 ∩ Acn+1 = Bn ∩ Acn+1 . In view of
independence,
P(Bnc ∩ An+1 ) = P(Bnc )P(An+1 ), and P(Bn ∩ Acn+1 ) = P(Bn )P(Acn+1 ),
which implies
P(Bn+1 ) = P(Bnc )P(An+1 ) + P(Bn )P(Acn+1 ) = (1 − P(Bn ))p + P(Bn )(1 − p),
with P(B0 ) = 1. That is,
πn+1 = (1 − p)πn + p(1 − πn ) = (1 − 2p)πn + p.
Substituting πn = a(1−2p)n +b gives that b = 1/2, and the condition π0 = 1
that a = 1/2. Then πn = [(1 − 2p)n + 1] /2.
A shorter way to derive the recursion is by conditioning on Bn and Bnc :
πn+1 = P(Bn+1 ) = P(Bn+1 ∩ Bn ) + P(Bn+1 ∩ Bnc )
= P(Acn+1 |Bn )P(Bn ) + P(An+1 |Bnc )P(Bnc )
= (1 − p)πn + p(1 − πn ).

Writing recursive equations like the one in the statement of the current
problem is a convenient instrument used in a great many situations.

Solution (Look at this solution after reading Section 1.5.) Let Xi = 0 or 1

be the outcome of the ith trial, and Yn = X1 + · · · + Xn the total number
of successes in n trials. Then the probability generating function of Yn
ψ(s) = [ps + (1 − p)]n .
Then the probability that n trials result in an even number of successes is
1 1 
[ψ(1) + ψ(−1)] = 1 + (1 − 2p)n .
2 2

Worked Example 1.2.10 My Aunt Agatha has given me a clockwork

orange for my birthday. I place it in the middle of my dining table which
happens to be exactly 2 metres long. One minute after I place it on the table
it makes a loud whirring sound, emits a puff of green smoke and moves 10
cm towards the left-hand end of the table with probability 3/5, or 10 cm
towards the right with probability 2/5. It continues in this manner (the
direction of each move being independent of what has gone before) at one
minute intervals until it reaches the edge of the table where it promptly falls
off. If it falls off the left-hand end it will break my Ming vase (also a present
 1.2 Conditional probabilities 23

from Aunt Agatha). If it falls off the right-hand end it will land safely in a
bucket of water. What is the probability that the Ming vase will survive?

Solution Set p to be
P(falls at RH end|was at distance × 10 cm from the LH end),
then 1 − p equals
P(falls at LH end|was at distance × 10 cm from LH end).
We have p0 = 0, p20 = 1 and p = 35 p−1 + 25 p+1 or
5 3
p+1 = p − p−1 .
2 2
In other words, vector (p , p+1 ) = (p−1 , p )A with
 
0 − 32
A= .
1 52
This yields
(p , p+1 ) = (p0 , p1 )A = (0, p1 )A ,
i.e. p should be a linear combination of the th powers of the eigenvalues of
A. The eigenvalues are λ1 = 32 and λ2 = 1 and so:
 
3
p = b1 + b2 .
2
We have the equations
 20
3
b1 + b2 = 0, 1 = b1 + b2 ,
2
whence
  −1
3 20
b1 = −b2 = −1
2

and
 10
3 1 1 1
p10 = 20 − 20 = .
2 (3/2) − 1 (3/2) − 1 (3/2)10 + 1

Worked Example 1.2.11 Dubrovsky sits down to a night of gambling

with his fellow officers. Each time he stakes u roubles there is a probability
r that he will win and receive back 2u Roubles (including his stake). At the
24 Discrete outcomes

beginning of the night he has 8000 Roubles. If ever he has 256 000 Roubles
he will marry the beautiful Natasha and retire to his estate in the country.
Otherwise, he will commit suicide. He decides to follow one of two courses
of action:

(i) to stake 1000 Roubles each time until the issue is decided;
(ii) to stake everything each time until the issue is decided.
Advise him (a) if r = 1/4 and (b) if r = 3/4. What are the chances of a
happy ending in each case if he follows your advice?

Solution Let p be the probability that Dubrovsky wins 256 000 with the
starting capital  thousands while following strategy (i). Reasoning as in
Worked Example 1.2.10 yields that

p = b1 λ1 + b2 λ2

where λ1 = (1 − r)/r and λ2 = 1 are the eigenvalues of the matrix

 
0 (1 − r)/r
A= .
1 1/r
The boundary conditions p0 = 0 and p256 = 1 yield
  −1
1 − r 256
b1 = −b2 = −1 .
r

For r = 1/4, (1 − r)/r = 3. Then he should choose (ii) as

38 − 1
p8 = ,
3256 − 1
which is tiny compared with (1/4)5 , the chance to win 256 000 in five suc-
cessful rounds by gambling on everything he obtains.
For r = 3/4, (1 − r)/r = 1/3. Then
1 − (1/3)8
p8 =
1 − (1/3)256
which is much larger than (3/4)5 . Therefore, he should choose (i).

Remark 1.2.12 In both Worked Examples 1.2.10 and 1.2.11 one of the
eigenvalues of the recursion matrix A equals 1. This is not accidental and
is due to the fact that in equation (1.2.6) (which gives rise to the recursive
equations under consideration) the sum j P(Bj ) = 1.
 1.2 Conditional probabilities 25

Worked Example 1.2.13 I play the dice game ‘craps’ against ‘Lucky’
Pete Jay as follows. On each throw I throw two dice. If my first throw is 7 or
11, then I win and if it is 2, 3 or 12, then I lose. If my first throw is none of
these, I throw repeatedly until I score the same as my first throw, in which
case I win, or I throw a 7, in which case I lose. What is the probability that
I will win?

Solution Write
P(I win) = P(I win at the 1st throw) + P(I win, but not at the 1st throw).
The probability P(I win at the 1st throw) is straightforward and equals
6 6
1 1 6 2 2
I(i + j = 7) + I(i + j = 11) = + = .
36 36 36 36 9
i,j=1 i,j=1

Here

1, if i + j = 7,
I(i + j = 7) =
0, otherwise.
For the second probability we have
P(I win, but not at the 1st throw) = pi q i .
i=4,5,6,8,9,10

Here
pi = P(the 1st score is i)
and
Qi = P(get i before 7 in the course of repeated throws|the 1st score is i)
= P(get i before 7 in the course of repeated throws).

Then for Qi , by conditioning on the result of the first throw:

pi
Qi = pi + (1 − pi − p7 )Qi , i.e. Qi = .
pi + p7
Equivalently,
Qi = pi + (1 − pi − p7 )pi + (1 − pi − p7 )2 pi + · · · ,
with the same result.
Now
3/36 3 1 4/36 4 2
Q4 = = = , Q5 = = = ,
3/36 + 6/36 3+6 3 4/36 + 6/36 4+6 5
26 Discrete outcomes

and likewise,
5/36 5 5 5 2 1
Q6 = = = , Q8 = , Q9 = , Q10 = ,
5/36 + 6/36 5+6 11 11 5 3
giving for P(I win, but not at the 1st throw) the value
1 1 1 2 5 5 5 5 1 1 1 1 134
× + × + × + × + × + × = .
12 3 9 5 36 11 36 11 9 5 12 3 495
Then
2 134 244
P(I win) = + = .
9 495 495

Worked Example 1.2.14 Two darts players throw alternately at a board

and the first to score a bull wins. On each of their throws player A has
probability pA and player B pB of success; the results of different throws are
independent. If A starts, calculate the probability that he/she wins.

Solution Consider the diagram below.

1 − pA 1 − pB 1 − pA 1 − pB
• −→ • −→ • −→ • −→ ...
..
pA pB pA pB .
A wins B wins A wins B wins

If Q = P(A wins), then

Q = pA + (1 − pA )(1 − pB )pA + (1 − pA )2 (1 − pB )2 pA + · · ·
pA pA
= = .
1 − (1 − pA )(1 − pB ) pA + pB − pA pB
Equivalently, by conditioning on the first and the second throw, one gets the
equation
P(A wins) = pA + (1 − pA )(1 − pB )P(A wins),

which is immediately solved to give the required result.

Remark 1.2.15 In Worked Examples 1.2.13 and 1.2.14 we used an equa-

tion for the probabilities Q and Qi that was equivalent to their representation
as series. This is another useful idea; for example, it allowed us to avoid the
use of infinite outcome spaces. However, we will not be able to avoid it much
longer.
 1.2 Conditional probabilities 27

Worked Example 1.2.16 A fair coin is tossed until either the sequence
HHH occurs in which case I win or the sequence T HH occurs, when you
win. What is the probability that you will win?

Solution In principle, the results of the game could be I win, you win
and the game lasts forever. Observe
 3 that I win only if HHH occurs at the
beginning: the probability is 1/2 = 1/8. Indeed, if HHH occurs but not
at the beginning then T HH should have occurred before then you will have
already won. But HHH will appear sooner or later, with probability 1. In
fact, for all N , the event
A = {HHH never occurs}
is contained in the event
AN = {HHH does not occur among the first N subsequent triples}
(we partition first 3N trials into N subsequent triples). So P(A) ≤ P(AN ).
But the probability P(AN ) = (1 − 1/8)N → 0 as N → ∞. Hence, P(A) = 0.
Therefore, the game cannot continue forever, and the probability that you
will win is 1 − 1/8 = 7/8.
Worked Example 1.2.17 (i) Give examples of the following phenomena:
(a) three events A, B, C that are pair-wise independent but not indepen-
dent;
(b) three events that are not independent, but such that the probability of
the intersection of all three is equal to the product of the probabilities.
(ii) Three coins each show heads with probability 3/5 and tails otherwise.
The first counts 10 points for a head and 2 for a tail, the second counts 4
points for a head and tail, and the third counts 3 points for a head and 20
for a tail.
You and your opponent each choose a coin; you cannot choose the same
coin. Each of you tosses your coin once and the person with the larger score
wins 1010 points. Would you prefer to be the first or the second to choose
a coin?

Solution (i) (a) Toss two unbiased coins, with

A = {1st toss shows H}, B = {2nd toss shows H}
and
C = {both tosses show the same side}.
28 Discrete outcomes

Then
1 1
P(A ∩ B) = pHH = = P(A)P(B), P(A ∩ C) = pHH = = P(A)P(C),
4 4
1
P(B ∩ C) = pHH = = P(B)P(C)
4
and
1
P(A ∩ B ∩ C) = pHH = = P(A)P(B)P(C).
4
Or throw three dice, with
A = {die one shows an odd score}, B = {die two shows an odd score},
C = {overall score odd}
and P(A) = P(B) = P(C) = 1/2. Then
1
P(A ∩ B) = P(A ∩ C) = P(B ∩ C) = , but P(A ∩ B ∩ C) = 0.
4
(b) Toss three coins, with
A = {1st toss shows H}, B = {3rd toss shows H},
C = {HHH, HHT, HT T, T T T } = {no subsequent T H}.
Then P(A) = P(B) = P(C) = 1/2,
 3
1 1
A ∩ B ∩ C = {HHH}, and P(A ∩ B ∩ C) = = .
8 2
But
3
A ∩ C = {HHH, HHT, HT T }, and P(A ∩ C) = ,
8
while
1
B ∩ C = {HHH}, and P(B ∩ C) = .
8
Or (as the majority of students’ attempts did so far), take A = ∅, and any
dependent pair B, C (say, B = C with 0 < P(B) < 1). Then A ∩ B ∩ C =
∅ and
P(A ∩ B ∩ C) = 0 = P(A)P(B)P(C), but P(B ∩ C) = P(B)P(C).

(ii) Suppose I choose coin 1 and you coin 2, then P(you win) = 2/5. But
if you choose 3 then
2 3 2 16 1
P(you win) = + × = > .
5 5 5 25 2
 1.2 Conditional probabilities 29

Similarly, if I choose 2 and you choose 1, P(you win) = 3/5 > 1/2. Finally, if
I choose 3 and you choose 2 then P(you win) = 3/5 > 1/2. Thus, it’s always
better to be the second.
Worked Example 1.2.18 (a) Let A1 , . . . , An be independent events, and
P(Ai ) < 1. Prove that there exists an event B, P(B) > 0, such that B∩Ai = ∅
for all 1 ≤ i ≤ n.
(b) Give an example of three events A1 , A2 , A3 that are dependent but where
any two events Ai and Aj , i = j are independent.

Solution (a) Let Ac be complement of event A; then

 n  n
P(A1 ∪ · · · ∪ An ) = 1 − P Ai = 1 −
c
P(Aci ) < 1
i=1
i=1
 c
as P(Aci ) > 0 for all i. Select B = Ai , then P(B) > 0 and B ∪ Ai = ∅
for all i.
(b) Let A1 = {1, 4}, A2 = {2, 4} and A3 = {3, 4} where P(k) = 1/4, k =
1, 2, 3, 4. Then P(Ai ) = 1/2, i = 1, 2, 3 and
 1 2
P(Ai ∩ Aj ) = P({4}) = = P(Ai )P(Aj ), 1 ≤ i < j ≤ 3,
2
on the other hand
 1 2  1 3
P(A1 ∩ A2 ∩ A3 ) = P({4}) = = = P(A1 )P(A2 )P(A3 ).
2 2

Worked Example 1.2.19 You toss two symmetric dice. Let event As
mean that the sum of readings is s, and Bj mean that the first die shows i.
Find all the values of s and i such that the events As and Bi are independent.

Solution The admissible values for s are 2, . . . , 12 and for i are 1, . . . , 6. We

have

1
if 2 ≤ s ≤ 7
P(As ) = 36
36 (6 − (s − 6) + 1) = 36 (13 − s) if 8 ≤ s ≤ 12,
1 1

and
1
P(Bi ) = , 1 ≤ i ≤ 6.
6
Clearly, P(As ∩ Bi ) = 36
1
, if 1 ≤ i ≤ 6, i < s ≤ i + 6, and P(As ∩ Bi ) = 0
otherwise. This implies that

P(As Bi ) = P(As )P(Bi )
30 Discrete outcomes

if and only if (a) s = 7 and 1 ≤ i ≤ 6, or (b) at least one of the values s or

i is not admissible.
Note that the case s = 7 is special as i could take any of admissible values
1, . . . , 6. In all other cases the value s put some restrictions on admissible
values of i (say, if s = 9 then i cannot take values 1 or 2). This destroys
independence.

Worked Example 1.2.20 Suppose n balls are placed at random into n

cells. Find the probability pn that exactly two cells remain empty.

Solution ‘At random’ means here that each ball is put in a cell with proba-
bility 1/n, independently of other balls. First, consider the cases n = 3 and
n = 4. If n = 3 we have one cell with three balls and two empty cells. Hence,
 
n 1 1
p3 = × n = .
2 n 9

If n = 4 we either have two cells with two balls each (probability p4 ) or one
cell with one ball and one cell with three balls (probability p4 ). Hence,
  
  n (n − 2) n(n − 1) 21
p4 = p4 + p4 = × n
× 4+ = .
2 n 4 64

Here 4 stands for the number of ways of selecting three balls that will go to
one cell, and n(n − 1)/4 stands for the number of ways of selecting two pairs
of balls that will go to two prescribed cells.
For n ≥ 5, to have exactly two empty cells means that either there are
exactly two cells with two balls in them and n − 4 with a single ball, or there
is one cell with three balls and n − 3 with a single ball. Denote probabilities
in question by pn and pn , respectively. Then pn = pn + pn . Further,
      2
n 1 n n−2 n−2n−3 1 1
pn = × × ··· ×
2 2 2 2 n n n n
  
1 n! n n−2
= n
.
4n 2 2
 
Here the first factor, n2 , is responsible for the number of ways of choosing
two empty cells among n. The second factor,
  
1 n n−2
,
2 2 2
 1.2 Conditional probabilities 31

accounts for choosing which balls ‘decide’ to fall in cells that will contain
two balls and also which cells will contain two balls. Finally, the third factor,
n−2n−3 1
... ,
n n n
gives the probability that n − 2 balls fall in n − 2 cells, one in each, and
the last (1/n)2 that two pairs of balls go into the cells marked for two-ball
occupancy. Next,
   
 n n (n − 3)!
pn = × (n − 2) × .
2 3 nn
 
Here the first factor, n2 , is responsible for the number of ways of choosing
two empty cells among n, the second, (n − 2), is responsible   for the number
of ways of choosing the cell with three balls, the third, n3 , is responsible
for the number of ways of choosing three balls to go into this cell, and the
(n − 3)!
last factor describes the distribution of all balls into the respective
nn
cells.
Worked Example 1.2.21 You play a match against an opponent in which
at each point either you or he/she serves. If you serve you win the point with
probability p1 , but if your opponent serves you win the point with probability
p2 . There are two possible conventions for serving:
(i) alternate serves;
(ii) the player serving continues until he/she loses a point.
You serve first and the first player to reach n points wins the match. Show
that your probability of winning the match does not depend on the serving
convention adopted.

Solution Both systems give you equal probabilities of winning. In fact,

suppose we extend the match beyond the result achieved, until you have
served n and your opponent n−1 times. (Under rule (i) you just continue the
alternating services and under (ii) the loser is given the remaining number
of serves.) Then, under either rule, if you win the actual game, you also
win the extended one, and vice versa (as your opponent won’t have enough
points to catch up with you). So it suffices to check the extended matches.
An outcome of an extended match is ω = (ω1 , . . . , ω2n−1 ), a sequence of
2n − 1 subsequent values, say zero (you lose a point) and one (you gain
one). You may think that ω1 , . . . , ωn represent the results of your serves and
ωn+1 , . . . , ω2n−1 those of your opponent. Define events
Ai = {you win your ith service}, and Bj = {you win his jth service}.
32 Discrete outcomes

Their respective indicator functions are


1, ω ∈ Ai
I(ω ∈ Ai ) =
0, ω ∈ Ai , 1 ≤ i ≤ n,

and

1, ω ∈ Bj
I(ω ∈ Bj ) =
0, ω ∈ Bj , 1 ≤ j ≤ n − 1.

Under both rules, the event that you win the extended match is
⎧ ⎫
⎨ ⎬
ω = (ω1 , . . . , ω2n−1 ) : ωi ≥ n ,
⎩ ⎭
1≤i≤2n−1

and the probability of outcome ω is

   
i IAi (ω) j IBj (ω) n−1− j IBj (ω)
p1 (1 − p1 )n− i IAi (ω) p2 (1 − p2 ) .

Because they do not depend on the choice of the rule, the probabilities are
the same.

Remark 1.2.22 The ω-notation was quite handy in this solution. We will
use it repeatedly in future problems.

Worked Example 1.2.23 The departmental photocopier has three parts

A, B and C which can go wrong. The probability that A will fail during a
copying session is 10−5 . The probability that B will fail is 10−1 if A fails and
10−5 otherwise. The probability that C will fail is 10−1 if B fails and 10−5
otherwise. The ‘Call Engineer’ sign lights up if two or three parts fail. If only
two parts have failed I can repair the machine myself but if all three parts
have failed my attempts will only make matters worse. If the ‘Call Engineer’
sign lights up and I am willing to run a risk of no greater than 1 percent of
making matters worse, should I try to repair the machine, and why?

Solution The final outcomes are

A f B f C f, probability 10−5 × 10−1 × 10−1 = 10−7 ,

A f B w C f, probability 10−5 × 9 · 10−1 × 10−5 = 9 · 10−11 ,
A f B f C w, probability 10−5 × 10−1 × 9 · 10−1 = 9 · 10−7 ,
A w B f C f, probability (1 − 10−5 ) × 10−5 × 10−1 = (1 − 10−5 ) · 10−6 .
 1.2 Conditional probabilities 33

So,
   P (3 fail)
P 3 parts fail2 or 3 fail =
P (2 or 3 fail)
P(A, B, C f)
=
P(A, B f C w) + P(A, C f B w) + P(B, C f A w) + P(A, B, C f)
10−7
=
9 · 10−7 + 9 × 10−11 + (1 − 10−5 ) · 10−6 + 10−7
10−7 1 1
≈ −7 −6 −7
= > .
9 · 10 + 10 + 10 20 100

Thus, you should not attempt to mend the photocopier: the chances of
making things worse are 1/20.

Worked Example 1.2.24 I’m playing tennis with my parents, the prob-
ability to win with a mum (M) is p, the probability to win with a dad (D)
is q where 0 < q < p < 1. We agreed to play three games, and their order
may be DMD (first, I play with dad, then with mum, then again with dad)
or MDM. The results of all games are independent. In both cases find the
probabilities of the following events:

(a) I win at least one game,

(b) I win at least two games,
(c) I win at least two games in succession (i.e. 1 and 2, or 2 and 3, or 1, 2
and 3),
(d) I win exactly two games in succession (i.e. 1 and 2, or 2 and 3 but not
1, 2 and 3),
(e) I win exactly two games (i.e. 1 and 2, or 2 and 3, or 1 and 3 but not 1,
2 and 3).

Solution (a)

PDM D (win ≥ 1) = 1−(1−q)2 (1−p) < 1−(1−p)2 (1−q) = PM DM (win ≥ 1)

(b)

PDM D (win ≥ 2) = 2pq + q 2 (1 − 2p) < 2pq − p2 (1 − 2q) = PM DM (win ≥ 2)

(c)

PDM D (win in succession ≥ 2)

= 2pq − q 2 p > 2pq − p2 q = PM DM (win in succession ≥ 2)
34 Discrete outcomes

(d)
PDM D (win 2 in succession)
= 2pq − 2q 2 p > 2pq − 2p2 q = PM DM (win 2 in succession)
(e)

PDM D (win) = 2pq = q 2 (1 − 3p), PM DM (win) = 2pq + p2 (1 − 3q).

Under condition p + q > 3pq we get

p2 (1 − 3q) − q 2 (1 − 3p) = p2 − q 2 + 3pq(p − q) = (p − q)(p + q − 3pq) > 0.

This implies PDM D (win) < PM DM (win).

Worked Example 1.2.25 You have four coins in your parcel. One of
them is special: it has heads on both sides. A coin selected at random shows
heads in three successive trials. Find the conditional probability of obtaining
heads in the fourth trial under the condition that the three previous trials
showed heads.

Solution Let the special coin be labelled 1, and the other coins labelled 2,
3, 4. The probability space Ω is the Cartesian product

{1, 2, 3, 4} × {H, T }4 ,

i.e. the set {i, S1 , S2 , S3 , S4 } where i is the coin number and Si = H or

T, i = 1, 2, 3, 4. We have
1 1 1
P(1, H, H, H, H) = , P(i, H, H, H, H) = , i = 2, 3, 4.
4 4 24
Now we find the conditional probability
P(H, H, H, H)
P(H, H, H, H|H, H, H) =
P(H, H, H)
4
P(1, H, H, H, H) + i=2 P(i, H, H, H, H)
= 4
P(1, H, H, H) + i=2 P(i, H, H, H)
1
 4
4 + 3 12 12 24 + 3 19
= 
1 1 3
 = 4
= .
1
+3 2 +6 22
4 2 2

Worked Example 1.2.26 Let A1 , A2 , . . . , An (n ≥ 2) be events in a sam-

ple space. For each of the following statements, either prove the statement
or provide a counterexample.
 1.2 Conditional probabilities 35

(i) If B is an event and if, for each k, {B, Ak } is a pair of independent


events, then {B, nk=1 Ak } is also a pair of independent events.
(ii)
 n       n−1 

n
 k−1
P Ak  A1 = P Ak   Ar , provided P Ak > 0 .
k=2 r=1 k=1
k=2

(iii)
n n 
If P (Ak ) > n − 1 then P Ak > 0 .
k=1
k=1

(iv)
  n 
n
If P (Ai ∩ Aj ) > −1 then P Ak > 0 .
2 k=1
i<j

Solution (i) False. For a counterexample, consider a throw of two dice and
fix the following events:
     
A1 = first die odd , A2 = second die odd , B = sum odd .

Then P(A1 ) = P(A2 ) = P(B) = 1/2 and P(A1 ∪ A2 ) = 1 − P(Ac1 ∪ Ac2 ) = 3/4.
Next,
1
P(A1 ∩ B) = = P(A1 )P(B),
4
1
P(A2 ∩ B) = = P(A2 )P(B),
4
indicating that individually, each of (A1 , B) and (A2 , B) is a pair of inde-
pendent events. However, as B ⊆ (A1 ∪ A2 ),
  1 1 3
P B ∩ (A1 ∪ A2 ) = P(B) = = × = P(B)P(A1 ∪ A2 ).
2 2 4
(ii) True, because
$  % 
P Ak  1≤r≤k−1 Ar
2≤k≤n  
= P(A2 |A1 )P(A3 |A1 ∩ A2 ) · · · P An |A1 ∩ · · · ∩ An−1
 
P(A1 ∩ A2 ) P(A1 ∩ A2 ∩ A3 ) P A1 ∩ · · · ∩ An−1 ∩ An
= ···  
 P(A1 ) P(A
 1∩A
2) A1 ∩ · · · ∩ An−1
 
P A1 ∩ · · · ∩ An 
= =P Ak  A1 .
P(A1 ) 2≤k≤n
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 BLACKWOOD’S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCCLXXXIV. FEBRUARY 1856.

Vol. LXXIX.
 CONTENTS.

Modern Light Literature—Poetry, 125

A Military Adventure in the Pyrenees—concluded, 138
The Wondrous Age, 154
Public Lectures—Mr Warren on Labour, 170
Touching Oxford, 179
The Ancient Coins of Greece, 193
Tickler among the Thieves! 200
The Drama, 209
Lessons from the War, 232
Religion in Common Life, 243

EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 45
GEORGE STREET,
AND 37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON;
To whom all communications (post paid) must be addressed.

SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.

 BLACKWOOD’S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCCLXXXIV. FEBRUARY, 1856.

Vol. LXXIX.

MODERN LIGHT LITERATURE—POETRY.

“Poets,” said the ancient wisdom, “are not made, but born.” We
have made miraculous progress in all the arts of manufacture since
the time of this saying, but we have not been able to controvert the
judgment of our forefathers. Education, refinement, taste, and talent,
are great things in their way, and men do wonders with them; but we
have not fallen yet upon a successful method of bringing down the
divine spark into the marble, let us work it ever so curiously. The
celestial gift in these new times, as in the old, comes down with
divine impartiality, yet seldom into the tenement most specially built
and garnished for its reception. We can make critics, connoisseurs,
“an enlightened audience,” but, let us labour at it as we will, we
cannot make a poet.
 And indeed, to tell the truth, it is but small help we can give, with
all our arts and ingenuities, even to the perfecting of the poet born.
Science discusses the subject gravely—at one time troubled with
apprehensions lest her severe shadow should kill the singer outright,
as Reason killed Love—at another, elate with the happier thought of
increasing all his conquests, and sending forth as her own esquire,
bearing her ponderous lance and helmet, the glorious boy in his
perennial youth. It is a vain speculation. The poet glances past this
important figure with a calm eye and a far-shining smile. His
vocation is beyond and beyond the range of all the sciences. The
heart and soul that were in the first home, ere ever even spade and
distaff were invented, when two forlorn hopeful creatures, wistfully
looking back to the sunset of Eden, wistfully looking forward to the
solemn nightfall of the drear world without, with all its starry
promises of another morning and a higher heaven, were all the
human race—are world and scope enough for the humanest and
most divine of arts. That God has made of one blood all the nations
and all the generations of this many-peopled earth, is the argument
on which he speaks; that heart answers unto heart all the world over,
is the secret of his power. The petulant passion of a child, the
heroisms and exultations and agonies of that fantastical sweet youth,
over whose unconscious mockery of our real conflict we graver
people smile and weep, are of more import to the poet than all the
secrets of the earth, and all the wonders of the sky; and he turns—it
is his vocation—from the discovery of a planet, forgetting all about it,
to make the whole world ring with joy over a cottage cradle, or weigh
down the very wings of the winds with wailing over some
uncommemorated grave.
Yes, it is a humiliating confession—but in reality we are quite as
like to injure as to elevate our poet by all our educations. Perhaps the
heavenly glamour in his eyne had best be left entirely unobscured by
any laws save those of nature; but at all events it seems tolerably
sure, that the more we labour at his training, the less satisfactory is
the result of it. A school of poets is the most hopeless affair in
existence; and whether it dwindle into those smallest of small
rhymsters, leaden echoes of the silver chimes of Pope, in whom the
eighteenth century delighted, or to the present makers of dislocated
verses, whose glory it is to break stones upon the road where the
Laureate’s gilded coach flashes by, we wait with equal weariness and
equal impatience for the Coming Man, who knows neither school nor
education—whose business it is to rout the superannuated spinsters,
and make the world ring once more with the involuntary outburst of
song and youth.
But we who are but the unhappy victims of the mania, why do we
blame ourselves? Alas! it is not we, but our poets, foolish fraternity,
who have set about this fatal task of making a school and perfecting
themselves in their art. How do you suppose they are to do it, kindest
reader? In other arts and professions the self-love of the student in
most instances suffers a woeful downfall at his very outset. Tutors
and books, dire conspirators against his innocence, startle the
hapless neophyte out of all his young complacency; professors set
him down calmly as a know-nothing; chums, with storms of laughter,
drive him out of his last stronghold. He has to shut himself out from
his college doors; seal himself up, poor boy, in his home letters, and
so sit down and study other people’s wisdom, till he comes by that far
away and roundabout process to some true estimate of his own.
But the poet, say the poets, needs other training. For him it is
safest that we shut him up with himself. Himself, a separated
creature, garlanded and crowned for the sacrifice, is, in one noble
concentration, all the ethics, the humanity, and the religion with
which he has to do; significances, occult and mysterious, are in every
breath of wind that whispers about his dedicated head; his smallest
actions are note-worthy, his sport is a mystery, his very bread and
cheese symbolical. He is a poet—everywhere, and in all places, it is
the destiny of this unfortunate to reverence himself, to contemplate
himself, to expound and study the growth of a poet’s mind, the
impulses of a poet’s affections; he is not to be permitted to be
unconscious of the sweet stirrings within him of the unspoken song;
he is not to be allowed to believe with that sweetest simplicity of
genius that every other youthful eye beholds “the light that never was
on sea or land,” as well as his own. Unhappy genius! ill-fated poet!
for him alone of all men must the heavens and the earth be blurred
over with a miserable I,—and so he wanders, a woeful Narcissus,
seeing his own image only, and nothing better, in all the lakes and
fountains; and, bound by all the canons of his art, falls at last
desperately either in love or in hate with the persistent double,
which, go where he will, still looks him in the face.
 But we bethink us of the greater poets, sons of the elder time.
There was David, prince of lyric-singers; there was Shakespeare,
greatest maker among men. The lyricist was a king, a statesman, a
warrior, and a prophet; the leisure of his very youth was the leisure
of occupation, when the flocks were feeding safe in the green
pastures, and by the quiet waters; and even then the dreaming poet-
eye had need to be wary, and sometimes flashed into sudden
lightning at sight of the lion which the stripling slew. He sung out of
the tumult and fulness of his heart—out of the labours, wars, and
tempests of his most human and most troubled life: his business in
this world was to live, and not to make poems. Yet what songs he
made! They are Holy Writ, inspired and sacred; yet they are human
songs, the lyrics of a struggling and kingly existence—the overflow of
the grand primal human emotions to which every living heart
resounds. His “heart moved him,” his “soul was stirred within him”—
true poet-heart—true soul of inspiration! and not what other men
might endure, glassed in the mirror of his own profound poetic
spirit, a study of mankind; but of what himself was bearing there and
at that moment, the royal singer made his outcry, suddenly, and “in
his haste,” to God. What cries of distress and agony are these! what
bursts of hope amid the heartbreak! what shouts and triumphs of
great joy! For David did not live to sing, but sang because he strove
and fought, rejoiced and suffered, in the very heart and heat of life.
Let us say a word of King David ere we go further. Never crowned
head had so many critics as this man has had in these two thousand
years; and many a scorner takes occasion by his failings, and
religious lips have often faltered to call him “the man after God’s own
heart;” yet if we would but think of it, how touching is this name! Not
the lofty and philosophic Paul, though his tranced eyes beheld the
very heaven of heavens; not John, although the human love of the
Lord yearned towards that vehement angel-enthusiast, whose very
passion was for God’s honour; but on this sinning, struggling,
repenting David, who fights and falls, and rises only to fall and fight
again—who only never will be content to lie still in his overthrow,
and acknowledge himself vanquished—who bears about with him
every day the traces of some downfall, yet every day is up again,
struggling on as he can, now discouraged, now desperate, now
exultant; who has a sore fighting life of it all his days, with enemies
within and without, his hands full of wars, his soul of ardours, his life
of temptations. Upon this man fell the election of Heaven. And small
must his knowledge be, of himself or of his race, who is not moved to
the very soul to think upon God’s choice of this David, as the man
after His own heart. Heaven send us all as little content with our sins
as had the King of Israel! Amen.
And then there is Shakespeare: never man among men, before or
after him, has made so many memorable people; yet amid all the
crowding faces on his canvass, we cannot point to one as “the
portrait of the painter.” He had leisure to make lives and histories for
all these men and women, but not to leave a single personal token to
us of himself. The chances seem to be, that this multitudinous man,
having so many other things to think of, thought marvellously little
of William Shakespeare; and that all that grave, noble face would
have brightened into mirthfullest laughter had he ever heard, in his
own manful days, of the Swan of Avon. His very magnitude, so to
speak, lessens him in our eyes; we are all inclined to be apologetic
when we find him going home in comfort and good estate, and
ending his days neither tragically nor romantically, but in ease and
honour. He is the greatest of poets, but he is not what you call a
poetical personage. He writes his plays for the Globe, but, once
begun upon them, thinks only of his Hamlet or his Lear, and not a
whit of his audience; nor, in the flush and fulness of his genius, does
a single shadow of himself cross the brilliant stage, where, truth to
speak, there is no need of him. The common conception of a poet, the
lofty, narrow, dreamy soul, made higher and more abstract still by
the glittering crown of light upon his crested forehead, is entirely
extinguished in the broad flood of sunshine wherein stands this
Shakespeare, a common man, sublimed and radiant in a very deluge
and overflow of genial power. Whether it be true or not that these
same marvellous gifts of his would have made as great a statesman
or as great a philosopher as they made a poet, it does not lie in our
way to discover; but to know that the prince of English poets did his
work, which no man has equalled, with as much simplicity and as
little egotism as any labouring peasant of his time—to see him setting
out upon it day by day, rejoicing like a strong man to run a race, but
never once revealing to us those laborious tokens of difficulties
overcome, which of themselves, as Mr Ruskin says, are among the
admirable excellences of Art—to perceive his ease and speed of
progress, and how his occupation constantly is with his story and
never with himself,—what a lesson it is! But alas, and alas! we are
none of us Shakespeares. Far above his motives, we would scorn to
spend our genius on a Globe Theatre, or on any other vulgar manner
of earning daily bread. The poet is a greater thing than his poem; let
us take it solely as an evidence of his progress; and in the mean time,
however he may tantalise the world with his gamut and his exercises,
let all the world look on with patience, with awe, and with
admiration. True, he is not making an Othello or a Hamlet; but never
mind, he is making Himself.
Yet the thought will glide in upon us woefully unawares,—What
the better are we? We are ever so many millions of people, and only a
hundred or two of us at the utmost can be made happy in the
personal acquaintanceship of Mr Tennyson or (we humbly crave the
Laureate’s pardon for the conjunction) Mr Dobell. In this view of the
question, it is not near so important to us that these gentlemen
should perfect the poet, as that they should make the poem. We ask
the Laureate for a battle-song, and he gives us a skilful fantasia upon
the harp; we hush our breath and open our ears, and, listening
devoutly to the “Eureka!” of here and there a sanguine critic, who has
found a poet, wait, longing for the lay that is to follow. Woe is upon
us!—all that we can hear in the universal twitter is, that every man is
trying his notes. We are patient, but we are not a stoic; and in the
wrath of our disappointment are we not tempted a hundred times to
plunge these melodious pipes into the abyss of our waste-paper
basket, and call aloud for Punch, and the Times?
Yes, that great poetic rebel, Wordsworth, has heavier sins upon his
head than Betty Foy and Alice Fell; it is to him we owe it, that the
poet in these days is to be regarded as a delicate monster, a creature
who lives not life but poetry, a being withdrawn out of the common
existence, and seeing its events only in the magic mirror of his own
consciousness, as the Lady of Shallott saw the boats upon the river,
and the city towers burning in the sun. The Poet of the Lakes had no
imaginary crimes to tell the world of, nor does it seem that he
regarded insanity as one of the highest and most poetic states of
man; but we venture to believe there never would have been a
Balder, and Maud should have had no crazy lover, had there been no
Recluse, solemnly living a long life for Self and Poetry in the retired
and sacred seclusion of Rydal Mount.
 It is in this way that the manner which is natural and a necessity to
some one great spirit, becomes an intolerable bondage and
oppression to a crowd of smaller ones. The solemn egotism, self-
reserved and abstract, which belonged to Wordsworth, is more easily
copied than the broad, bright, manful nature of our greatest English
poet, who was too mighty to be peculiar; and the delusion has still a
deeper root. It is in our nature, as it seems, to scorn what is familiar
and common to all the world; priesthoods, find them where you will,
are bound to profess a more ethereal organisation, and seek a
separated atmosphere. Wordsworth is a very good leader; but for a
thorough out-and-out practical man, admitting no compromise with
his theory, commend us to Anthony the Eremite, the first of all
monkish deserters from this poor sinking vessel, the world. The poet
is the priest of Nature; out with him from this Noah’s ark of clean
and unclean,—this field of wheat and tares, growing together till the
harvest,—this ignoble region of common life. Let the interpreter
betake him to his monastery, his cloister, his anchorite’s cell—and
when he is there? Yes, when he is there—he will sing to us poor
thralls whom he has left behind, but not of our ignoble passions and
rejoicings, or the sorrows that rend our hearts. Very different from
our heavy-handed troubles, rough troopers in God’s army of
afflictions, are the spectre shapes of this poetic world. True, their
happiness is rapture, their misery of the wildest, their remorse the
most refined; but the daylight shines through and through these
ghostly people, and leaves nothing of them but bits of cloud. Alas, the
preaching is vain and without profit! What can the poet do—when he
is tired of his Mystic, sick of his Balder, weary of Assyrian bulls and
lords with rabbit-mouths? Indeed, there seems little better left for
him than what his predecessors did before. The monk spent his soul
upon some bright-leaved missal, and left the record of his life in the
illumination of an initial letter, or the border of foliage on a vellum
page; the poet throws away his in some elaborate chime of words,
some new inverted measure, or trick of jingling syllables. Which is
the quaintest? for it is easy to say which is the saddest waste of the
good gifts of God.
Also it is but an indifferent sign of us, being, as we undoubtedly
are, so far as poetry is concerned, a secondary age, that there can be
no dispute about the first poet of our day. There is no elder
brotherhood to compete for the laurel; no trio like Wordsworth,
Coleridge, and Southey; no guerilla like Byron to seize upon the
contested honour, nor Irish minstrel to strike a sugared note of
emulation. Should a chance arrow at this moment strike down our
poetic champion, so far from comforting ourselves, like King Henry,
that we have “five hundred as good as he,” we could not find for our
consolation one substitute for Tennyson. Echoes of him we could
indeed find by the score; but no one his entire equal in all the field.
Let no one say we do not appreciate poetry; in these mechanical days
there are still a goodly number of singers who could echo that
unfortunate admission which cost Haverillo his life, and was the last
stroke of exasperation to the redoubtable Firmilian, “I have a third
edition in the press.” But in spite of Smith and Dobell, the Brownings
and the Mystics, our Laureate holds his place; holding his laurel with
justice and right less disputable than most of his predecessors. Yet
our admiration of Tennyson is perplexed and unsatisfactory. He is
the first in his generation, but out of his generation he does not bear
comparison with any person of note and fame equal to his own. He is
small in the presence of Wordsworth, a very inferior magician indeed
by the side of Coleridge; his very music—pardon us, all poets and all
critics!—does not flow. It may be melodious, but it is not winged; one
stanza will not float into another. It is a rosary of golden beads, some
of them gemmed and radiant, fit to be set in a king’s crown; but you
must tell them one by one, and take leisure for your comment while
they drop from your fingers. They are beautiful, but they leave you
perfectly cool and self-possessed in the midst of your admiration. To
linger over them is a necessity; it becomes them to be read with
criticism; you go over the costly beadroll and choose your single
favourites here and there, as you might do in a gallery of sculpture.
And thus the poet chooses to make you master of his song,—it does
not seize upon you.
This is a kind and manner of influence which poets have not often
aimed at. Hitherto it has been the object of this fraternity to arrest
and overpower their audience as the Ancient Mariner fascinated the
wedding guest; and we all know how helplessly, and with what
complete submission, we have followed in the train of these
enchanters, wheresoever it pleased them to turn their wayward
footsteps. But Mr Tennyson aims at a more refined and subtle
influence than this downright enslaving. A poet who writes, or seems
to write, because he cannot help it,—and a poet who writes, or seems
to write, of set purpose and malice prepense, are two very different
persons. A man of the first class could not have written In
Memoriam. Had he been mourning, he must have mourned a closer
grief, and broken his heart over it, ere he had wept the half of those
melodious tears; but for the poet quietly selecting a subject for his
poem, the wisest philosopher could not have suggested a better
choice. A great deal has been said and written on this subject, and we
are fully aware that grief does not make books, or even poems, except
in very rare and brief instances, and that the voice of a great sorrow
is a sharp and bitter outcry, and not a long and eloquent monologue.
But Mr Tennyson does not present himself to us under the strong
and violent compulsion of a great sorrow. It is not grief at his heart
which makes him speak, using his gifts to give ease and utterance to
its burden of weeping; but it is himself who uses his grief, fully
perceiving its capabilities, and the entrance it will give him into the
sacred and universal sympathy of his fellows. For, like all great works
of art, this poem appeals to one of the primitive and universal
emotions of human nature. The dead—the early dead, the beloved,
the gifted, the young: we may discuss the appropriateness of the
tribute, but we cannot refuse to be moved by its occasion. No man
can look on these pages without finding here and there a verse which
strikes home; for few of us are happy enough to live so much as
twenty years in this weary world of ours without some In Memoriam
of our own.
Yet we cannot complain of Mr Tennyson that he makes
merchandise of any of the nearest and closest bereavements, the
afflictions which shake the very balance of the world to those who
suffer them. His sorrow is as much of the mind as of the heart; he
weeps a companion beloved, yet almost more honoured and
esteemed than beloved—a friend, not even a brother, still less a child
or a wife;—enough of the primitive passion to claim sympathy from
all of us, but not so much that our sympathy loses itself in a woe
beyond consolation. Pure friendship is seldom so impassioned; but
had it been a commoner tie—a relationship more usual—these
gradual revelations of grief in all its successive phases must have
been too much at once for the poet and his audience. This nice
discrimination secures for us that we are able to read and follow him
into all those solemn regions of thought and fancy which open at the
touch of death; he does not fall down upon the grave, the threshold,
as we are but too like to do, and we wander after him wistfully,
beguiled with the echo of this thoughtful weeping, which must have
overpowered us had it been as close or as personal as our own. We
feel that over our own minds these same thoughts have flashed now
and then—a momentary gleam—while we were wading in the bitter
waters, and woefully making up our minds, a hundred times in an
hour, to the will of God; but who could follow them out? The poet,
more composed, does what we could not do; he makes those flashes
of hope or of agony into pictures visible and true. Those glimpses of
the face of the dead, of the moonlight marking out upon the marble
the letters of his name, those visions of his progress now from height
to height in the pure heavens, all the inconsistent lights and shadows
—mingled thoughts of the silence in the grave, and of the sound and
sunshine of heaven—not one of them is passed over. People say it is
not one poem, but a succession of poems. It must have been so, or it
would not have been true. One after another they come gleaming
through the long reverie of grief—one after another, noting well their
inconsistencies, their leaps from day to night, from earth to heaven,
the poet has set them down. He knows that we think of the lost, in
the same instant, as slumbering under the sod and as awaking above
the sky; he knows that we realise them here and there, as living and
yet as dead; he knows that our
“fancy fuses old and new,
And flashes into false and true,
And mingles all without a plan.”

It is the excellence of In Memoriam that it is a succession of poems

—that the thread of connection runs loosely—now and then drops,
and as unexpectedly comes to light again—that the sequence of these
fancies knows no logic, and that they come in the strain as they come
to the heart.
At the same time it is equally true that all this is done of set
purpose and intention—that the act with which, glimpse by glimpse,
the whole tearful chronicle is made visible, is a calm deliberate act,
and not a voice out of the present passion of a heartbreaking grief.
The poet has chosen the theme—it is not the theme which urges with
an overpowering impulse the utterance of the poet.
 And so it is with all Mr Tennyson’s verses, for—no disparagement
to his poetic power—verses we must call them. It is true he is now
and then moved by some sudden exclamation, and shouts it out with
an unexpected force which startles his readers, for the moment, into
a more eager sympathy—but for the most part this poet holds his
verse in perfect subordination, and is never overcome or led away by
it. His poetry is made, it is not born. When he can round a sentence
into a stanza, the effect, of its kind, is perfect; but the very form of his
favourite measure, the rhythm of In Memoriam, is against any real
outburst of involuntary song; for the verse which falls so sweetly
when it contains all that belongs to it within its perfect crystal round,
like a dewdrop, makes only a most blurred and unshapely strain
when it has to eke out its sense with another and another stanza.
When the necessities of his subject force him to this, the poet labours
like a man threading together a succession of fish-ponds in hopes of
making a river. Of themselves these silvery globes are perfect, but
there is no current in them, and, work as you will, they can never
flow and glow into a living stream. Yes, our Laureate unhappily is
always far too much “master of his subject;” would that his subject
now and then could but master him!
If it should happen, by any chance, that Mr Tennyson shared in
Wordsworth’s solemn conceit, and designed to make a Gothic
cathedral out of his works and life, we marvel much what place in it
could be given to The Princess, that prettiest of poetic extravagances.
Not a Lady-chapel, though it is of a college of ladies that the story
treats—not a delicate shrine, all wrought in lilies and graces of
foliage, like the shrine of some sweet maiden-saint. No; the Marys,
the Catherines, and the Margarets, symbolised an entirely different
fashion of womankind; yet have we the greatest kindness for Ida in
her girlish heroics, sincerest of all fictions—in her grand words, and
her pride, her inconstant subjects, and her own self-betraying heart.
For our own part, we are so entirely weary of symbols, that we do not
pause to inquire whether The Princess means anything more than it
professes to mean. To us it is only a pleasant picture of the
phantasies of youth.
The sweet and daring folly of girlish heroics and extravagance has
not done half so much service to the poet and story-teller as has the
corresponding stage in the development of man. Yet there is more
innocence in it, and perhaps in its full bloom its pretensions are even
more sublime. The delicate temerity which dares everything, yet at
its very climax starts away in a little sudden access of fear—the
glorious young stoic, who could endure a martyrdom, yet has very
hard ado to keep from crying when you lose her favourite book or
break her favourite flower—the wild enthusiast dreamer, scorning all
authorities, who yet could not sleep o’ nights if she had transgressed
by ever so little the sweet obedience of home,—there is a charm
about this folly almost more delightful than the magic of the bolder
youth, with all its bright vagaries; and it is this which makes our
tenderness for the Princess Ida and all her “girl graduates in their
golden hair.”
Strange enough, however, this phase of youthfulness does not
seem to have struck any woman-poet. We have heroines pensive and
heroines sublime, heroines serious and heroines merry, but very few
specimens of that high fantastical which embraces all these, and into
which most men, and doubtless most women, on their way to soberer
life, have the luck to fall. Mrs Browning is too sad, too serious, too
conscious of the special pangs and calamities which press heaviest on
her sisterhood, to take note of any happier peculiarity. Nor is this
special eye to feminine troubles confined to Mrs Browning: a
weeping and a melancholy band are the poetesses of all generations.
“Woman is the lesser man,” says the Laureate; but only woman is the
sadder man—the victim set apart on a platform of injury—the
wronged and slighted being whose lot it is to waste her sweetness on
hearts unkind and ungrateful, say all the ladies. “Her lot is on you.”
The mature woman has no better thought, when she looks over the
bright girl-heads, bent in their morning prayer; and wherever we
have a female singer, there stands woman, deject and pensive,
betrayed, forsaken, unbeloved, weeping immeasurable tears. Is a
woman, then, the only creature in God’s universe whom He leaves
without compensation? Out upon the thought! but there ought to be
some Ida bold enough to proclaim the woman’s special happinesses
—the exuberant girl-delights—the maiden meditation, fancy free—
the glory of motherhood—the blessings as entirely her own as are the
griefs. Bertha in the Lane is a most moving story, sweetly told; but ye
are not always weeping, O gentlest sisterhood! and where are your
songs of joy?
 If Mr Tennyson intends the hysterical folly of Maud for a
companion picture to this one, he is indeed elevating the woman to a
higher pedestal than even Ida dreamed of; for the youth is a
miserable conception in comparison with this sunbright girl. In the
beginning of the last reign of poets—when men, disturbed by the
great rustle of the coming wings, endeavoured to find out wherein
the magic consisted, to which they could not choose but yield—we
remember to have seen many clever speculations on the nature of
poetry “One said it was the moon—another said nay”; and it was very
hard to understand the unreasonable potency of this enchantment—
which, indeed, clever people, unwilling to yield to an influence which
they cannot measure, are perpetually accounting for by rules and
principles of art. “It has always been our opinion,” says Lord Jeffrey,
“that the very essence of poetry, apart from the pathos, the wit, or the
brilliant description which may be embodied in it, but may exist
equally in prose, consists in the fine perception and vivid expression
of that subtle and mysterious analogy which exists between the
physical and the moral world—which makes outward things and
qualities the natural types and emblems of inward gifts and
emotions, and leads us to ascribe life and sentiment to everything
that interests us in the aspects of external nature.” Lord Jeffrey is a
good authority, though sometimes this troublesome poetry put even
the accomplished critic out of his reckoning; but we are sadly afraid
that this deliverance of his, or at least the idea it contains, has had
some share in the present insanity of all our poets in regard to
Nature. Mr Tennyson may have a private reason of his own for
making such a miserable grumbler as his last hero. Mr Dobell may
hold himself justified, in the heights of self-complacence, and for the
benefit of art, for his atrocious Balder, a criminal, by all poetic laws,
for prosiness interminable, worse than murder; but we would crave
to know what right these gentlemen may have to seize upon our
genial nature, and craze her healthful looks and voices to their
hysterical and ghastly fancy? We are content, if he uses his own
materials, that the Laureate should dabble his hollow with blood to
his heart’s content; but we will not consent, for a hundred laureates,
to make the free heather of our hills, the kindly blossom sacred to
home and to liberty, an image of disgust and horror. After all, this is
a very poor trick and a contemptible—at its best much like that which
Mr Ruskin denounces as the most ignoble thing in painting, the
excitement of mind which comes from a successful deception, the
consciousness that the thing we look at is not what it appears to be.
When we feel Nature sympathising with us, it is well; but it is not
well when we force her to echo our own mad fancies, of themselves
forced and unreal enough. The “frantic rain,” the “shuddering dark,”
the “maddened beach”—alas, poor poets! is force of expression not to
be found by better means than by this juggle of misplaced adjectives?
How widely different was the “sea change into something rich and
strange” of the sweeter imagination and the greater heart!
But it is doubtless a very perturbed atmosphere in which we find
ourselves when we come face to face with the last new arrival in the
land of poesy, the unfortunate young gentleman whose hard fate it is
to love Maud, and to shoot her brother. He has no name, this ill-
fated youth; but doubtless Balder is reckoned in his roll of
cousinships, and so is Mr Alexander Smith. There are three of them,
ladies and gentlemen, and they are an amiable trio. Strangely as their
garb and intentions are altered, there is a lingering reminiscence
about them of a certain Childe Harold who once set the world
aflame. Like him they are troubled with a weight of woe and
misfortune mysteriously beyond the conception of common men; but
unlike him—and the difference is characteristic—these unhappy lads
are solemnly bent on “improving their minds,” in spite of their
misery. For our own part, we are much disposed, in the first instance,
to set down Maud as one of the greatest impertinences ever
perpetrated by a poet; but we confess, after an hour’s trial of Balder,
and the ceaseless singing of that wife of his, which of itself certainly
was almost enough to drive a sober man crazy, and ought to be
received as an extenuating circumstance, we return in a kinder spirit
to the nameless young gentleman who wrote the Laureate’s poem.
After all, he is only an idle boy, scorning other people, as idle boys
are not unwont to scorn their neighbours in the world; he does not
think himself a divinity; he has not a manuscript at hand to draw
forth and gaze upon with delighted eyes; he is not—let us be grateful
—a poet. His history is all pure playing with the reader, a wanton
waste of our attention and the singer’s powers; but, after all, there is
something of the breath of life in it, when we compare it with the
solemn foolery of its much-pretending contemporaries, the lauds of
the self-worshipping man, or the rhapsodies of the self-admiring
youth.
 We remember to have heard a very skilful painter of still life
describe how the composition, the light and shade, and arrangement
of one of his pictures, was taken from a great old picture of a
scriptural scene. Instead of men and women, the story and the action
of the original, our friend had only things inanimate to group upon
his canvass, but he kept the arrangement, the sunshine and the
shadow, the same. One can suppose that some such artistic whim
had seized upon Mr Tennyson. In the wantonness of conscious
power, he has been looking about him for some feat to do—when, lo!
the crash of a travelling orchestra smote upon the ears of the poet.
Are there German bands in the Isle of Wight? or was it the sublimer
music of some provincial opera which woke the Laureate’s soul to
this deed of high emprise? Yes, Maud is an overture done into words;
beginning with a jar and thunder—all the breath of all the players
drawn out in lengthened suspiration upon the noisy notes; then bits
of humaner interlude—soft flute-voices—here and there a
momentary silvery trumpet-note, or the tinkle of a harp, and then a
concluding crash of all the instruments, a tumult of noises fast and
furious, an assault upon our ears and our patience, only endurable
because we see the end. Such is this poem—which indeed it is sad to
call a poem, especially in those hard days. We mean no
disparagement to Mr Tennyson’s powers. It is perhaps only when we
compare this with other poems of the day that we see how prettily
managed is the thread of the story, and how these morsels of verse
carry us through every scene as clear as if every scene was a picture;
but a man who knows only too consciously that a whole nation of
people acknowledge him as their best singer—a man who also
doubtless must have noted how the good public, those common
people who take their ill names so tenderly, hurry his books into
sixth and tenth editions, a fact which ought somewhat to
counterbalance the cheating yard-wand—and one, moreover, so
thoroughly acquainted with the gravity and passion of this time, and
how it has been startled into a humbler estimate of itself by the fiery
touch of war,—that such a man, at such an hour, should send forth
this piece of trifling as his contribution to the courage and heartening
of his country, is as near an insult to the audience he addresses as
anything which is not personal can be.
Mr Tennyson, however, has insight and perception to keep him
from the strand on which his imitators—the smaller people who
endeavour to compete with him in poetry, and triumphantly excel
him in extravagance—go ashore. He knows that a poet’s hero ought
not to be a poet—that a man’s genius was given him, if not for the
glory of God, its best aim, yet, at worst, for the glory of some other
man, and not for the pitiful delight of self-laudation, meanest of
human follies. A great book is a great thing, and a great poem is the
most immortal of great books; yet, notwithstanding, one cannot help
a smile at the “Have you read my book?” of Mr Smith’s Life Drama,
or the
“O thou first last work! my early planned,
Long meditate, and slowly-written epic,”

of Mr Dobell! The poet’s glory is to celebrate other achievements

than his own. His inspiration is the generous flush of sympathy
which triumphs in another’s triumph: “Arms and the man I sing;”
and so it becomes him to throw his heart into his subject, and leave
his own reputation with a noble indifference to the coming ages, who
will take care of that. But it is a perilous day for poetry when poets
magnify their office through page after page of lengthy argument—
not to say, besides, that it is very unjust to us, who are not poets but
common people, and cannot be expected to follow into these
recondite regions the soaring wing of genius. The greater can
comprehend the less, but not the less the greater. He can descend to
us in our working-day cares, but it is not to be expected that many of
us can ascend to him in that sublime retirement of his among the
visions and the shadows. To take Balder, for instance: marvellously
few of us, even at our vainest, think either kings or gods of ourselves;
ordinary human nature, spite of its prides and pretensions, is seldom
without a consciousness at its heart of its own littleness and poverty;
and when we hear a man declaring his sublime superiority, we are
puzzled, and pause, and smile, and try to make it out a burlesque or
an irony. If he says it in sport, we can understand him, for Firmilian
is out of sight a more comprehensible person than his prototype; but
if our hero is in earnest, we shake our perplexed heads and let him go
by—we know him not. There may be such a person—far be it from us
to limit the creative faculty; but how does anybody suppose that we—
“Creatures not too wise nor good
For human nature’s daily food,”
can be able to comprehend a being who makes no secret of his own
intense superiority, his elevation over our heads? Again, we say, the
greater comprehends the less, and not the less the greater. We can
enter into the trials and the delights of ordinary men like ourselves;
but, alas! we are not able to enter into those pleasures and poetic
pains “which only poets know.” And the poet knows we cannot
appreciate him—nay, glories in our wonder as we gape after him in
his erratic progress—showers upon us assurances that we cannot
understand, and laughs at our vain fancy if we venture humbly to
suppose that we might; but in the name of everything reasonable, we
crave to know, this being the case, why this infatuated singer
publishes his poem? “Have you read my book?” says Walter, in the
Life Drama; and being answered, “I have:” “It is enough,” says the
satisfied poet,—
“The Book was only written for two souls,
And they are thine and mine.”

Very well! So be it! We did not ask Mr Smith for a poem, neither did
our importunity besiege the tower of Balder; but if they were not
written for us, why tantalise us with these mysterious revelations?
For two souls the Life Drama might have answered exceeding well in
manuscript, and within the bounds of a private circulation the
exceptional men who possibly could comprehend him might have
studied Balder. How does it happen that Shakespeare’s wonderful
people, with all their great individualities, are never exceptional
men? It is a singular evidence of the vast and wide difference
between great genius and “poetic talent.” For Shakespeare, you
perceive, can afford to let us all understand; thanks to his
commentators, there are a great many obscure phrases in the Prince
of Poets—but all the commentators in the world cannot make one
character unintelligible, or throw confusion into a single scene.
Balder, we presume, has not yet been hanged, indisputable as are
his claims to that apotheosis; for this is only part the first, and our
dangerous hero has yet to progress through sundry other
“experiences,” and to come at last “from a doubtful mind to a faithful
mind,”—how about his conscience and the law, meanwhile, Mr
Dobell does not say. But we have no objections to make to the story
of Balder. That such a being should exist at all, or, existing, should,
of all places in the world, manage to thrust himself into a poem, is
the head and front of the offending, to our thought. The author of
this poetic Frankenstein mentions Haydon, Keats, and David Scott as
instances of the “much-observed and well-recorded characters of
men,” in which “the elements of his hero exist uncombined and
undeveloped.” Poor Keats’s passionate poet-vanity seems out of
place beside the marvellous and unexampled egotism of the two
painters; but we do not see how the poet improves his position by
this reference; nay, had we demonstration that Balder himself was a
living man, we do not see what better it would be. He is a monster,
were he twenty people; and, worse than a monster, he is a bore; and,
worse than a bore, he is an unbearable prig! One longs to thrust the
man out of the window, as he sits mouthing over his long-meditated
epic, and anticipating his empire of the world. Yet it really is a
satisfaction to be told that this incarnate vanity represents “the
predominant intellectual misfortune of the day.” Is this then the
Doubt of which Mr Maurice is respectful, which Mr Kingsley
admires, and Isaac Taylor lifts his lance to demolish? Alas, poor
gentlemen, how they are all deceived! It is like the story we all
believed till truth-telling war found out the difference for us, of the
painted ramparts and wooden bullets of the Russian fortresses. If Mr
Dobell is right, we want no artillery against the doubter—he will
make few proselytes, and we may safely leave him to any elaborate
processes he chooses for the killing of himself.
“Many things go to the making of all things,” says a quaint proverb
—and we require more than a shower of similes, pelting upon us like
the bonbons of a carnival—more than a peculiar measure, a
characteristic cadence, to make poetry. There is our Transatlantic
cousin rhyming forth his chant to all the winds. Well!—we thought
we knew poetry once upon a time—once in the former days our heart
leaped at sight of a poetry-book, and the flutter of the new white
pages was a delight to our soul. But alas, and alas! our interest fails
us as much for the Song of Hiawatha as for the musings of Balder;
there is no getting through the confused crowd of Mr Browning’s
Men and Women, and with reverential awe we withdraw us from The
Mystic, not even daring a venturesome glance upon that globe of
darkness. What are we to do with these books? They suppose a state
of leisure, of ease, of quietness, unknown to us for many a day. It
pleases the poet to sing of a distempered vanity brooding by itself
over fictitious misfortunes, and what is it to us whether a Maud or a
Balder be the issue?—or he treats of manners and customs, names
and civilisations, and what care we whether it be an Indian village or
a May fair? We have strayed by mistake into a delicate manufactory
—an atelier of the beaux arts—and even while we look at the
workmen and admire the exquisite manipulation of the precious toys
before us, our minds stray away out of doors with a sigh of weariness
to the labours of this fighting world of ours and the storms of our
own life. There is no charm here to hold us, none to cheat us into a
momentary forgetfulness of either our languors or our labours. If it is
all poetry, it has lost the first heritage and birthright of the Muse: it
speaks to the ear—it does not speak to the heart.
Yet in this contention of cadences, where every man’s ambition is
for a new rhythm, Hiawatha has a strong claim upon the popular
fancy. Possibly it is not new; but if Mr Longfellow is the first to make
it popular, it matters very little who invented it; and to talk of
plagiarism is absurd. But, unhappily for the poet, this is the very
measure to attract the parodist. Punch has opened the assault, and
we will not attempt to predict how many gleeful voices may echo his
good-humoured mockery before the year is out. The jingle of this
measure is irresistible, and with a good vocabulary of any savage
language at one’s elbow, one feels a pleasing confidence that the
strain might spin on for ever, and almost make itself. But for all that,
though the trick of the weaving is admirable—though we are roused
into pleasant excitement now and then by a hairbreadth escape from
a rhyme, and applaud the dexterity with which this one peril is
evaded, we are sadly at a loss to find any marks of a great or note-
worthy poem in this chant, which is fatally “illustrative of” a certain
kind of life, but contains very little in itself of any life at all. The
greatest works of art,—and we say it at risk of repeating ourselves—
are those which appeal to the primitive emotions of nature; and in
gradual descent, as you address the secondary and less universal
emotions, you fail in interest, in influence, and in greatness.
Hiawatha contains a morsel of a love-story, and a glimpse of a grief;
but these do not occupy more than a few pages, and are by no means
important in the song. The consequence is, of course, that we listen
to it entirely unmoved. It was not meant to move us. The poet
intends only that we should admire him, and be attracted by the
novelty of his subject; and so we do admire him—and so we are
amused by the novel syllables—attracted by the chime of the rhythm,
and the quaint conventionalities of the savage life. But we cannot
conceal from ourselves that it is conventional, though it is savage;
and that in reality we see rather less of the actual human life and
nature under the war-paint of the Indian than is to be beheld every
day under the English broadcloth. The Muse is absolute in her
conditions; we cannot restrain her actual footsteps; from the highest
ideal to the plainest matter of fact there is no forbidden ground to
the wandering minstrel; but it is the very secret of her individuality,
that wherever she goes she sounds upon the chords of her especial
harp, the heart;—vibrations of human feeling ring about her in her
wayfaring—the appeal of the broken heart and the shout of the glad
one thrust in to the very pathway where her loftiest abstraction walks
in profounder calm; and though it may please her to amuse herself
among social vanities now and then, we are always reminded of her
identity by a deeper touch, a sudden glance aside into the soul of
things—a glimpse of that nature which makes the whole world kin. It
is this perpetual returning, suddenly, involuntarily, and almost
unawares, to the closest emotions of the human life, which
distinguishes among his fellows the true poet. It is the charm of his
art that he startles us in an instant, and when we least expected it,
out of mere admiration into tears; but such an effect unfortunately
can never be produced by customs, or improvements, or social
reforms. The greatest powers of the external world are as inadequate
to this as are the vanities of a village; and even a combination of both
is a fruitless expedient. No, Mr Longfellow has not shot his arrow
this time into the heart of the oak—the dart has glanced aside, and
fallen idly among the brushwood. His Song is a quaint chant, a
happy illustration of manners, but it lacks all the important elements
which go to the making of a poem. We are interested, pleased,
attracted, yet perfectly indifferent; the measure haunts our ear, but
not the matter—and we care no more for Hiawatha, and are still as
little concerned for the land of the Objibbeways, as if America’s best
minstrel had never made a song. The poet was more successful in the
wistfulness of his Evangeline, to which even these lengthened,
desolate, inquiring hexameters lent a charm of appropriate
symphony; but it is a peculiarity of this sweet singer that his best
strains are always wistful, longing, true voices of the night.
 It is odd to remark the entire family aspect and resemblance which
our English poets bear to one another. Mr Tennyson is the eldest of
the group, and they all take after him; but they are true brothers, and
have quite a family standard of merit by which to judge themselves.
Mr Dobell is the sulky boy—Mr Browning the boisterous one—Mr
Smith the younger brother, desperately bent on being even with the
firstborn, and owning no claim of birthright. There is but one sister
in the melodious household, and she is quite what the one sister
generally is in such a family—not untouched by even the schoolboy
pranks of the surrounding brothers—falling into their ways of
speaking—moved by their commotions—very feminine, yet more
acquainted with masculine fancies than with the common ways of
women. Another sister or two to share her womanly moderatorship
in this noisy household might have made a considerable difference in
Mrs Browning: but her position has a charm of its own;—she never
lags behind the fraternal band, nay, sometimes stimulated by a
sudden impulse, glides on first, and calls “the boys” to follow her: nor
does she quite refuse now and then to join a wild expedition to the
woods or the sea-shore. If she has sometimes a feminine perception
that the language of the brothers is somewhat too rugged or too
obscure for common comprehension, she partly adopts the same,
with a graceful feminine artifice, to show how, blended with her
sweeter words, this careless diction can be musical after all; and you
feel quite confident that she will stand up stoutly for all the
brotherhood, even when she does not quite approve of their vagaries.
She has songs of her own, sweet and characteristic, such as “Little
Ellie,” and leaps into the heart of a great subject once in that Lay of
the Children, which everybody knows and quotes, and which has just
poetic exaggeration sufficient to express the vehement indignation
with which the song compelled the singer’s utterance. Altogether,
Mrs Browning’s poems, rank them how you will in intellectual
power, have more of the native mettle of poetry than most modern
verses. She is less artificial than her brotherhood—and there is
something of the spring and freedom of things born in her two
earlier volumes; she is not so assiduously busy over the things which
have to be made.
And Robert Browning is the wild boy of the household—the
boisterous noisy shouting voice which the elder people shake their
heads to hear. It is very hard to make out what he would be at with
those marvellous convolutions of words; but, after all, he really
seems to mean something, which is a comfort in its way. Then there
is an unmistakable enjoyment in this wild sport of his—he likes it,
though we are puzzled; and sometimes he works like the old
primitive painters, with little command of his tools, but something
genuine in his mind, which comes out in spite of the stubborn
brushes and pigments, marvellous ugly, yet somehow true. Only very
few of his Men and Women is it possible to make out: indeed, we fear
that the Andrea and the Bishop Blougram are about the only
intelligible sketches, to our poor apprehension, in the volumes; but
there is a pleasant glimmer of the author himself through the rent
and tortured fabric of his poetry, which commends him to a kindly
judgment; and, unlike those brothers of his who use the dramatic
form with an entire contravention of its principles, this writer of
rugged verses has a dramatic gift, the power of contrasting character,
and expressing its distinctions.
But altogether, not to go further into these characteristic
differences, they are a united and affectionate family this band of
poets, and chorus each other with admirable amiability; yet we
confess, for poetry’s sake, we are jealous of the Laureate’s
indisputable pre-eminence. It is not well for any man—unless he
chance to be a man like Shakespeare, a happy chance, which has
never happened but once in our race or country—to have so great a
monopoly; and it is a sad misfortune for Tennyson himself, that he
has no one to try his mettle, but is troubled with a shadowy crowd of
competitors eagerly contending which shall reflect his peculiarities
best.
For the manfuller voices are all busy with serious prose or that
craft of novel-writing which is more manageable for common uses
than the loftier vehicle of verse. True, there are such names as
Aytoun and Macaulay, and we all know the ringing martial ballad-
notes which belong to these distinguished writers; but Macaulay and
Aytoun have taken to other courses, and strike the harp no more.
And while the higher places stand vacant, the lower ones fill with a
crowd of choral people, who only serve to show us the superiority of
the reigning family, such as it is. It is a sad fact, yet we cannot
dispute it—poetry is fast becoming an accomplishment, and the
number of people in “polite society” who write verses is appalling.
Only the other day, two happy samples of Young England came by
chance across our path—one a young clergyman, high, high,
unspeakably high, riding upon the very rigging of the highest roof of
Anglican churchmanship, bland, smooth, and gracious, a bishop in
the bud; the other, his antipodes and perfect opposite, gone far
astray after the Warringtons and Pendennises—a man of mirth and
daring, ready for everything. They had but one feature of
resemblance—an odd illustration of what we have just been saying.
Both of them had modestly ventured into print; both of them were
poets.
And yet that stream of smooth and facile verse which surrounded
us in former days has suffered visible diminution. It is a different
kind of fare which our minor minstrels shower down upon that
wonderful appetite of youth, which doubtless cracks those rough-
husked nuts of words with delighted eagerness, as we once drank in
the sugared milk-and-water of a less pretending Helicon. After all,
we suspect it is the youthful people who are the poets’ best audience.
These heirs of Time, coming leisurely to their inheritance, have space
for song by the way; but in the din and contest of life we want a more
potent influence. If the poet has anything to say to us, he must even
seize us by the strong hand, and compel our listening; for we are very
unlike to pause of our own will, or take time to hear his music on any
weaker argument than this.
And he too at last has gone away to join his old long-departed
contemporaries, that old old man, with his classic rose-garland, from
the classic table, where generations of men and poets have come and
gone, a world of changing guests. He was not a great poet certainly,
and his festive, and prosperous, and lengthened life called for no
particular exercise of our sympathies; yet honour and gentle
recollection be with the last survivor of the last race of Anakim,
though he himself was not among the giants. The day has changed
since that meridian flush which left a certain splendour of reflection
upon Samuel Rogers, the last of that great family of song. Ours is
only a twilight kind of radiance, however much we may make of it. It
differs sadly from the full unclouded shining of that Day of the Poets
which is past.